Reborn

1

So this was what it felt like to die.

Hudson had planned his death to be fast and painless. A simple shot to the head by his own hand, an escape from the inner demon that relentlessly clawed at and twisted his very soul. He didn’t know if he would feel the initial penetration from the bullet, but he figured it would be a moot point after it did a blender on his brain.

However, sometimes even the best-laid plans turn to shit, like what was happening now. No, instead of dying the quick, painless death he had imagined here in this lovely hotel room, he was tied to a chair in nothing but a pair of boxers, his blood slowly draining from him by the cuts of his attacker’s knife.

He silently swore as he felt another slash across his chest.

Over the course of the past few hours, his attacker had already sliced up most of the heavily muscled planes of his six-foot-five, two-hundred-sixty-eight-pound frame.

That last cut hurt like a bitch on steroids.

He had heard that people often saw their lives flash before their eyes when they were dying. Different snapshots of loved ones, places, and special occasions that made up the mosaic of a person’s existence. Oh, and look there—he was getting his own private viewing of his life.

Could this day get any better?

The first picture that flashed in Hudson’s mind was of the high golden buildings that made up the cities of his home planet, SR44. He loved the way the light from the twilight sun reflected off them, while SR44ians’ colored forms also mirrored off the buildings, casting the whole city in a rainbow of color. His mother and father stepped into his line of sight as clear as if they were directly in front of him, the makeup of his mother’s body swirling in a very pale, yellow smoke, while his father’s SR44 form consisted of a rustic red color.

The road to happiness is peace in your soul, his mother used to say.

What did you just say? his attacker asked.

Great, now Hudson was talking to himself as well as seeing things.

Hudson’s mother reached out to him. "Moha," he whispered.

Your mommy can’t help you now, asshole.

The vision dissipated, and a new one took its place. It was his younger brother, his form had been a dark brown. Hudson had nicknamed him Stretch because of his towering height, but as he grew older, Stretch became a consummate liar, always stretching the truth, so the nickname fit like a glove. Hudson hadn’t seen Stretch, or his parents, in over five hundred years after that fateful night in the forest.

Hudson’s uncle had become a Forest Dweller on SR44, preferring to live off the land instead of in the cities. Hudson’s father had taken the family to visit when Hudson was the equivalent of a fifteen-year-old boy in Earth years, Stretch twelve. Someone always had to be on guard because the little dinosaur-like creatures that lived in the forest often attacked the Forest Dwellers, inhaling their smoky forms. That night, Hudson’s brother and cousin had been standing guard. Hudson remembered the first shattering scream of his cousin being killed. Hudson’s father had told him to run, and he had. When he returned to the camp later, he realized that no one from his family had survived the attack—his father, mother, nor his brother. There simply wasn’t any trace of them around.

He had returned to his small home in the city, angry and confused, not knowing where to go, what to do, how he would survive.

The guilt he felt for running and not staying with his family ate at him. Humans called it Survivor’s Guilt, and he carried it around like a boulder on his shoulders. He became angry at his world, at the incredible unfairness of it all, and turned to crime to survive and to work out his rage. He took from others. He fought to earn the coupons, or the equivalent of Earth’s money, needed to keep his family’s home. He often lay awake at night waiting for his family to come through the door and claim that they had played a joke on him.

That joke never came.

His mother, father, and brother were gone for good.

Not that he missed his brother much. If the accident had happened a few years earlier, he would have been able to say that he missed Stretch. But in the year prior to the accident, Stretch had changed. Looking back, Hudson believed there was something fundamentally wrong with his brother. Stretch began leaning toward cruelty. There was a time or two when Hudson had found a dead SR44 animal around their abode. He could never prove it, but he believed his brother had been responsible.

But Hudson also had darkness within him. One night, two years after his family’s death, Hudson had been caught fighting and was hauled to the sub-court to be charged for his crime. When he met the Peacekeeper, the male had recognized something beneath the fury in Hudson. The Peacekeeper had enrolled him into the SR44 military, where Hudson thrived on the structure. He quickly made his way up the ranks to the Battle Squad of SR44, the equivalent of the human Special Forces in the military.

Tell me the code to get into that missile silo or I will slowly gut you. Sternum to your dick.

Hudson looked up at his attacker. The guy was one of twelve Colonists, one of the baddest of the bad who had escaped from the Colonists’ banishment on SR44’s moon called the Colony. He had come down to Earth, taken on a human form, and proceeded to do a lot of killing. Hudson was one the Warriors sent to clean up the living garbage that had been unleashed on Earth, but it was taking much longer than anyone had expected—like two hundred eleven years longer. Considering the lifespan of an SR44 male ranged about two thousand years, give or take a century, there was still plenty of time for Hudson to fulfill his mission of killing Colonists—if he had wanted to. He figured he was about eleven hundred to twelve hundred years old, but looked like a male of about thirty.

The Colonist appeared so normal. A typical suburban guy who kept his grass mowed and his bushes trimmed, maybe an accountant or someone in middle management. His face was terribly unremarkable, as was the dark hair cut close to his skull. He was average height and weight. Being so unremarkable was the way he moved through his life killing at will. He was someone that no one would notice, and if they did, they wouldn’t remember him.

The Colonist’s white button-down shirt was now stained with drops of Hudson’s blood. Hudson smiled; at least he had ruined the guy’s shirt.

This normal-looking psychopath wanted the code to get into the missile silo just outside of Phoenix where Hudson and his fellow Warriors lived. The Colonist would never, ever get that code from Hudson. He might be ready to meet the great beyond, but he sure as hell wasn’t sending any of his fellow Warriors—or their mates—anywhere near there, which was exactly what would happen if this asshole got in there.

Hudson looked around the room. It was a nice place he’d chosen to die. He had checked into the hotel yesterday and was getting ready to kill himself when this bastard showed up. A dark brown comforter and stark-white silk sheets covered the bed, and a piece of fine chocolate sat on the nightstand with a note of goodnight wishes and sweet dreams. The black leather couch to the left of the bed faced a sixty-four-inch plasma TV.

His eyes gazed over to the oak desk and the hallway that led to the bathroom and dressing area. The whole room was encased in fuzzy, light brown wallpaper. Maybe velvet?

But really, did it matter at this point?

He looked down at the floor, black ash dusting the very thick, very plush tan carpet. The Warriors discovered that the Colonists’ shed the black ash when they killed because they were in a heightened state. When the Warriors were in a heightened state, their skin radiated their SR44 color. Hudson’s color was yellow, but right now, as he looked at his own skin, he saw nothing but red.

I’m not telling you shit, Hudson said, meeting the black eyes of the Colonist. Go ahead and kill me. That’s what I came here to do anyway. You’re just saving a bullet.

The Colonist’s eyes flared for a second, then narrowed. Who checks in to a Four Seasons to commit suicide?

I do.

Yeah, it was a little over the top, he knew that. But Hudson really enjoyed the finer things in life, and the more over the top the better. He loved beautiful, well-fit clothing, jewelry, and staying in nice places. The missile silo that he shared with the other Warriors was plush and comfortable, but he didn’t want them to have to scrape his brains off the walls. He decided he would go out in style, which meant having a fabulous meal, meeting a woman, having sex one last time, enjoying a few belts of scotch, and then having his Glock as a chaser. He had accomplished everything but eating his Glock. This asshole had interrupted him.

Hudson hissed as the knife slashed his arm.

I would love to kill you outright, but this is kind of fun, the Colonist said with a small grin and a giggle. I think you’ll break, Warrior. You’ll give me that code, so I can get rid of the rest of them as soon as I’m finished here.

Hudson sighed. There was no way he would ever give up the code to the missile silo where he lived with his fellow Warriors—Noah, Rayner, Jovan, Talin, and Cohen. All six of them had been nicknamed the Six Saviors by the people of SR44 who hoped that they would be able to save the people of Earth.

Hudson’s daughter, Abby, was mated to Noah, and Rayner had recently taken on a mate as well, Faith. He cared way too much about all of them to break and throw down the welcome mat to this guy.

Hudson couldn’t get past the feeling that he knew this asshole. There was something familiar about him . . . something he couldn’t pinpoint.

But that was a fleeting thought. Back to the dying part of his day.

Dammit, why wasn’t he numb if he was so close to death? The Colonist had been slicing and dicing him for what seemed like hours, and Hudson was weak from all the blood loss. He sure as shit felt like the Grim Reaper was knocking on the door, so why was he feeling everything? He had heard that once you got close to death, your brain shut down, causing your body to go numb so you didn’t feel the pain.

But Hudson’s agony radiated from the inside out. No matter what was done to his physical form, it couldn’t compare to the absolute torture he held in his soul for the past twenty-six years, when he’d lost the only woman he had loved.

Iris.

He must have spoken the name aloud, because his attacker got in his face and calmly asked, Who’s Iris?

Shutting his eyes, he blocked out the vision of Iris threatening to make an appearance. Iris was the wrecking ball that had destroyed Hudson’s heart.

He knew on the outside he seemed fine. He always dressed in the finest clothing, his black hair combed back into a ponytail that hung down to the middle of his shoulder blades. He smiled and laughed when necessary, but he never felt the actual emotion of happiness that went with the actions.

Fraud. Yes, he was a fraud on so many levels. He wasn’t fine. He was wrecked, and he simply couldn’t hold it together any longer.

The Colonist sliced at his chest again. Hudson shut his eyes and tried to block out the trail of fire from the knife.

Hudson sighed and supposed he would die eventually. He knew he was losing a lot of blood. He thought about that little brunette he had hooked up with last night, but then his thoughts turned to the blonde who had invaded his brain and taken over. The knife slashing across the back of his shoulder cut those thoughts off before they even really had a chance to begin. Shit. Was the Colonist going to carve a roadmap into his back as well?

What is the code, Warrior?

Hudson opened his eyes and looked at his own personal grim reaper. You, sir, can go fuck yourself.

The Colonist became enraged and hit Hudson in the face with such force that Hudson’s world went to black.

2

Three Days Earlier

Beverly Devlone sat in a lounge chair under a large tree and closed her eyes. She let the peace, serenity, and beauty of the grounds of the Sierra Tucson Treatment Center seep into her very being.

Although it was 11:00 a.m., the temperature outside was warm and muggy, but that was how it was in Tucson, Arizona, in late August. The shade and the light breeze made it bearable for her though.

To say it was a big day would be an understatement, and she felt the butterflies of anxiety and the tremors of excitement rumble through her belly. As they said in therapy, today was the first day of the rest of her life.

She didn’t hear anyone approach, and jumped when a hand lightly touched her shoulder. She opened her eyes and was met with a kind smile and the serene face of Suzanna, her therapist.

Are you ready to go? Suzanna asked. She was around fifty years old with salt-and-pepper hair, carried her love of chocolate around her waist, and her eyes crinkled at the corners when she smiled. She had become Beverly’s mentor and savior over the past two months.

Beverly sighed and looked around the grounds. Green grass, pretty flowers, large shading trees, beautiful sunsets, and extreme heat had been her world for sixty days now, and it was daunting to think about going out into the real world.

You don’t have to go, Beverly. If you feel you need more time, you can stay.

Beverly nodded, pushed her shoulder-length blonde hair behind her ears, and looked up into the kind face again. I know, Suzanna, but I can’t live here forever. I need to get back to my life and figure out what I’m going to do, what direction I’m going to take.

Suzanna nodded. You do, but if you’re not ready, stay. I would rather have you around longer then have you come back later back at square one.

Square one had been a raging addiction to pain pills. She hadn’t been picky—Vicodin, Percocet, Codeine—it didn’t really matter as long as it dulled the ache.

As with most addicts, Beverly hadn’t gotten help until she reached rock bottom.

For her, that had consisted of losing her medical license when she was caught stealing pain pills from the pharmacy at the hospital where she served as a general practitioner. The hospital director, who she had been on friendly terms with, had agreed not to prosecute her if she promised to get help. After her dismissal, she had gone home, and with tears streaming down her face, she shakily dialed the number to Sierra Tucson Treatment Center.

She had checked in the next afternoon, proud of herself that she had only consumed three pills, so she wasn’t terribly high. The next morning the detox began as her body purged the drugs from her system. As she draped herself over the toilet for the third time with the dry heaves, she prayed and made a promise to herself and to God that this would be the first and the last time she would have that experience. When the shaking began, she begged for a pill, the agony within her almost too much to handle. She yelled, cried, cursed, and just when she thought she couldn’t take it any longer, it all stopped. All that was left was a terrible emptiness and an overwhelming sadness for what she had allowed her life to become.

That was where Suzanna had come in. Beverly clocked in hours and hours of therapy, trying to get her head on straight, to make sense of the sequence of events that brought her to this place: her mother’s suicide almost a year ago, and the car accident three weeks after her mother’s death that had left Beverly in the hospital for two weeks with a broken pelvis.

But sixty days after her rock-bottom moment, she was feeling stronger, and she felt ready to leave this sanctuary.

Thanks, Suzanna, but I think I’m ready. I remember square one very well, and I don’t want to go back there.

Beverly stood and the two women headed back toward Beverly’s room.

I know last time we talked you had a short-term plan but not a long-term one.

Beverly nodded, smiling to herself that Suzanna rarely ever asked a question, leaving her statements open-ended.

Yes. I still don’t have a firm long-term plan. Thankfully, I have money in my savings account, so I’d like to get in a car and see some of the West Coast and figure out where I want to live, as well as what I would like to do. I have enough money to last about two years comfortably, but obviously I’d like to be working before I run out.

Suzanna nodded. When they reached Beverly’s room, they turned to face each other. So the short-term plan is still the same.

Beverly nodded and looked into the eyes of her therapist. Yes, I’m heading to Phoenix today and checking in to the Four Season for a little pampering. I’ll stay a couple of days, and then head to California and up the coast to do a little exploring.

Suzanna nodded. I’ll miss you, Beverly, but I’m happy to see you go. If you feel you need to come back, do it.

Beverly nodded, and the two women hugged.

Take care, Beverly.

Beverly went into her room, flipping her sunglasses to the top of her head. Her bag was packed, and she was ready to go. She went to the bathroom and splashed cool water on her face, meeting her light green eyes in the mirror. Her skin was clear and porcelain white, her cheekbones high. Her gaze wandered down over her slim shoulders and small breasts that were covered by her purple T-shirt. She had lost weight after the car accident and during her addiction and her stay here, but she was also much stronger thanks to all the exercise she had been doing. When she had been a doctor at Tucson General Hospital, she hadn’t had time to exercise because of her heavy workload and long hours. But here at rehab, she had nothing to do but concentrate on herself.

Unfortunately, she didn’t quite have everything figured out. She used to have a purpose as a doctor, and now she had none. The label of doctor held prestige, but the label of ex-doctor and junkie, not so much. She would have to figure out what her next step would be, what she would do. The American Medical Association had made it crystal clear she wouldn’t be practicing medicine again.

She also worried what others would think if they ever found out about her long fall from grace. With the technology today, it was impossible to keep secrets, so she knew that if someone wanted to find out about her past, it would only take a couple taps of a keyboard.

Her gut told her that going back to practicing medicine wasn’t going to happen, and not only because she didn’t have a medical license any longer. An addict needed to steer clear of any temptation, and being in a hospital setting surrounded by drugs was like putting an out-of-control diabetic in a candy store.

It just wasn’t smart.

When she thought about all the time and money she and her mother had put into her getting her medical degree, she cringed, not being able to think of the disappointment her mother would have felt if she were alive.

But then again, if her mother were alive, Beverly probably wouldn’t be in the position she was in, and her thoughts returned to that fateful day.

It had been a Wednesday morning when she stopped by her mom’s house in the middle-class Tucson, Arizona, neighborhood. Beverly had been an only child—her father had died of cancer when she was only two, and her mother had never remarried. She had no memories of her father, only the imagined ones she stored from her mother telling her about