The (Alien) Nanny for Christmas Read online

  The (Alien) Nanny for Christmas

  by Amanda Milo

  Copyright © 2018 Amanda Milo ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by an information and retrieval system without express written permission from the Author/Publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  To the best beta team members in all of the galaxies: R, Cindy, Tammy, ED, Ronika, Lyda, and Yui.

  To R, who can put all manner of gadgets and appliances together, and never needs the instructions. You are totally my badass superhero ♥

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 1

  MITTEEKU

  My gaze falls on an incredibly beautiful creature with wings of sparkling gossamer. The bright, shimmering colors are swirled and patterned and framed in bold strokes of black, and the overall effect reminds me of the princesses of my homeworld.

  This makes me smile, and carefully, I coax the tiny beauty to crawl onto my hand. It’s so light and feels so breakable, yet it’s tiny feet seem to adhere to my scales with surprising strength. I watch, fascinated, as it slowly, jerkily, explores my palm.

  Its wings spread out, the colorful outsides brushing my scales and leaving a pretty powder behind. “Like hobs,” I murmur.

  It slowly closes its wings, then lays them flat again, but each additional movement is slower and slower. It’s hypnotizing.

  Smoke blows from my nostrils when I acknowledge that I feel the compulsion to keep this newfound lovely. But I don’t know what it needs, and I would hate to treat poorly something so precious, even if my neglect was performed in ignorance.

  I stretch my hand out to place the creature on a nearby metal formation that stands in a mound of shredded wood. The formation appears decorative, with thin flutes hanging down in a cluster. It sentries over what appears to be a dead garden; there is one lone shrub here, leafless, alone—dry and hibernating, most likely. The garden lies in a small alcove with a border of brick that leads to a set of matching brick stairs. Atop the stairs is an inviting, interestingly-designed door, with thick strips of beaten, swirling metal that manage to be as pleasing to the eye as they are functional for holding the wooden planks fast together.

  I’m drawn to it, but I’m taking a great risk by standing in the open at all; I can’t go about peering at doors. No matter how greatly I desire to peer at this one.

  My attention is stolen from examining it because a high-toned metallic clattering begins. It’s coming from the metal formation under my hand; I’ve disrupted it, and it’s putting up an alarm.

  “Shhh,” I tell it, not certain it’s sentient but hoping it can obey commands if it’s either been trained or programmed to peal an alert when it finds a trespasser. “Stop that noise. I’m leaving.”

  But the tiny, colorful creature still clinging to my scales has not alighted yet. “Off with you now; I fear I won’t be welcomed here and I must take my leave. Go on.”

  It does not go. It will not let go—it’s tiny feet stick fast to my scales. My tail lashes behind me at the thought that time is running out and surely someone will come to investigate this chaos of noise soon. No matter how musical it sounds on the ears (and it is oddly musical), it is too loud to be overlooked.

  I’ve never taken such care with my claws in my lifespan; barely applying more than air-taps to the length of the winged creature’s body, I try to nudge it onto the still-upset metal bell-clamorer.

  I glare down at the ringing thing. “I will be forced to take measures to silence you,” I warn it.

  But I’m too late; I no more than manage to lay down my threat when the decorative door to the house opens.

  A female—a member of this planet’s ruling species known as humans—peeks out.

  Human females are fair things. I’ve seen a number of them and all of them have lovely forms and pleasing attributes.

  But this female...

  It’s odd: in only a glimpse—a partial glimpse at that—I’m struck. I’m spellbound. She is the loveliest female of them all. Her hair falls in glossy waves that have me swallowing hard. Her eyes, striking and as attractive as the color of a summer-ripened luushu, glisten brightly and go wide as she stares at me in shock.

  I stare at her in shock too.

  Because she’s crying.

  CHAPTER 2

  GWEN

  It’s been a bad morning. The babysitter quit and I had to call my supervisor and tell him that I’m trying to find a last-second replacement. I’ve called everyone, and I mean everyone—I’m even on an emergency list with a daycare twenty minutes in the wrong direction from work—just in the hopes that they get a kid picked up in time for me to drop my baby off and save my bacon.

  So here I am, throwing myself at my supervisor’s feet, begging for mercy, because although I’m going to do my best, I might be late coming in.

  After I deliver my news, he’s quiet for too long, his pause stretching out too much, and my already upset stomach starts roiling. I knew this was not going to be good. When he doesn’t break the silence, my nerves fray. This is really, really not going to be good.

  And then I’m honing in to the sound of the regret in his voice. “Gwen… you’re a great employee. You really are. But this will be the third time you’re late. Three is the rule. If you’re not clocked in by nine, we’re going to have to let you go. I’m really sorry.”

  I was late once because I had to turn around and pick up Chris from school when he got sick. Three days later, Austin caught it and I couldn’t leave him at the sitter’s—she had other kids to watch and, understandably, it’s kind of a big no-no to drop off your baby with a fever. He was basically that little monkey from Outbreak. I had to stay home and keep him quarantined.

  Two times, I was out of options. Two. I get it, that’s not good—but I am a good employee. And I like my job. I need my job.

  To my supervisor I say, “Please don’t give up on me yet.”

  “I’m pulling for you, Gwen,” he replies, and this makes me feel both a spark of gratitude and a seriously suffocating crush of despair, because I don’t know how I’m going to pull a rabbit out of a hat for this one.

  I end the call, dropping back against the cupboards, and sink to the floor.

  “Mom?” Chris asks, his voice strident as he comes into the kitchen. “I don’t want to—” He stops dead when he sees me. “What’s wrong?”

  Blonde like his dad, and almost as tall as me, my son is a cute kid mutating into a teenager. He’s all legs, arms, overnight growth spurts (ones that inevitably put him right out of every new pair of shoes that I buy for him) and he is emotions. I can almost guarantee that he was about to storm in here and tell me why it sucks that he has to go to school. But seeing me defeated and on the floor has one (temporary) benefit, yay—it’s derailed that tired argument.

  I hate to worry him. But we are in trouble.

  Austin starts crying, unhappy to realize he’s alone in the other room and the sound makes my eyelids feel hot.

  I sigh. I start to, anyway. It ends up bursting out as an extremely wet sob.

  “Mom?” Chris asks in full alarm now. “Mom, what’s wrong?”

  I open my mouth to tell him the truth: we’re screwed. If I lose this job, we don’t make the rent payment. If we don’t make the rent payment, we’re… I don’t know. I think there’s a grace period that might help if I can get hired somewhere else, but if I can’t find a new job in time… I don’t know what happens. I don’t know how to fix this.

  Before I can tell him anything, I hear the wind chime start up by the front door.

  It doesn’t sound like it’s being blown by a breeze though. It sounds like something is playing with it. More like caught in it. It wouldn’t be the first time; we had a zany squirrel decide to try using it as a jungle gym once. I shakily make it to my feet and cross to the door just as Austin wheels into the kitchen in his dino-themed walker seat. He’s no longer crying and he’s got a stuffed llama along for the ride. It’s old; one of Chris’s old toys, and this means Chris gave it to him sometime this morning, which Austin must have loved—he adores everything of his brother’s. He adores everything about his older brother, period. Chris wasn’t thrilled to have such a fawning baby brother, not at first—Austin’s a human puppy, always dogging his heels and wanting to be in the middle of whatever he sees Chris doing. But more and more, Chris is relaxing about it, deciding to view his situation more pragmatically: he’s being hero worshipped. And lately, he’s been helping out in the care of his
very biggest fan.

  I point to the toy and look at my eldest. “Thank you.”

  Chris shrugs. “I didn’t want it anymore anyway.”

  I give him a shoulder-squeeze, ignoring how he rolls his eyes. To Austin, I promise, “I’ll be right back, sweetheart.” The chimes are still going crazy, and I’m almost relieved to have something inane to focus on, something I can set free and send safely on its way. I wonder what I’ll see this time.

  I don’t expect it to be a monster.

  CHAPTER 3

  GWEN

  Up until the point I actually get a glimpse of the thing setting off the chimes, my feelings are a mix. I’m a little overwhelmed, and a lot distraught. All my thoughts are on our current crisis.

  That all goes out the window when I get an eyeful of the creature on our walkway.

  He’s just wearing a crazy-detailed costume, my mind tries to assure me even as my adrenaline levels spike.

  I’ve seen the uploads on Youtube—I couldn’t have missed them, they’re all over the Internet—someone got bored and decided to tour the city in one wicked cool costume. They interviewed some of the people who filmed him with their cell phones, and of course the interviewees said the guy’s suit almost looked real. Now I see what they mean.

  Because deep down, I know without a doubt in my mind that I’m not looking at some guy in a suit. This is no convention-goer who’s testing out a kick ass costume.

  Instinctively, I recognize that I’m looking at an otherworldly beast.

  What’s in front of me looks a little different from what I saw in the video clips, but it’s the same kind of creature.

  This one’s got a rucksack over his shoulder, made of some sort of shiny, silver, waterproof-looking material. His pants are black, badass carpenter pants—all sorts of pockets and straps. His shirt stretches over his super-wide shoulders and hugs every one of his muscles like a second skin, showing off his bulging arms, and his ridiculously defined abdominals.

  That’s all well and good—real, real good—it’s the rest of him that’s rendered me speechless.

  He’s got a pair of big horns that curl with flourish, and every bit of his skin that’s not covered by clothing looks plated in triangular-shaped scales. There’s almost a metallic sheen to them, a firebird red you don’t often see outside of the dangerous things in nature.

  The creature has his hand held out, the back of it resting on the wind chime—and that slight unsteadiness you get when you hold out your stretched arm? That’s what’s setting the chime off—that and the fact that he’s trying to brush a butterfly off of his fingers.

  Our eyes lock. (Uh—the big horned beast and me—not me and the butterfly. That might actually have managed to be more of a surprise.) The beast cups his hands around the winged insect and bounds up on our porch stoop—skipping the stairs entirely. He just launches himself right up in front of me. “Female? Are you hurt?”

  “What?” I ask hollowly, half of my mind trying to panic while the other half is remarking how gently such a frightening creature is holding such a delicate butterfly.

  “You are weeping. What has caused this?”

  “Why are you holding a butterfly?” I blurt out instead of answering him.

  He takes a moment to peer down thoughtfully. “Is that what this is? It’s very pretty.” His eyes flick to my chest—and I feel a shock hit me. An odd shock. It isn’t fear I feel.

  It’s awareness.

  But then I realize what he’s looking at, and I glance down at the embroidery on my blouse. In sparkling thread, butterflies flutter in a curling pattern along my throat’s hemline.

  This is my lucky blouse. I tend to get the best commissions when I’m wearing it.

  Thinking of my commissions reminds me that it doesn’t matter if this blouse’s color complements my skin and the cut flatters my stomach, and makes my boobs look amazing. Because unless a miracle lands on my doorstep in the next few minutes, I’m out of a job and we are going to be facing homelessness.

  But bigger concerns! Sort of. Taller, way taller, for sure. I swing my eyes to Chris to see he’s goggle-eyed right along with me—and this is good, because it means the sudden deluge of stress hasn’t caused me to become delusional. Yet. I glance up at the very tall stranger and my common sense tries to reassert itself: monsters don’t exist. No matter how real his appearance looks, what he really is is a man in a costume. He has to be.

  His deep voice startles me. “Can you help me release this butterfly?” He holds up his cupped palms. “I couldn’t get it to alight from my hand. I thought it might like your alarm perch—of course I wasn’t aware it was rigged to raise an alarm. I suppose this butterfly knew, eh? Wise little creature,” he says fondly as he lowers his eyes and uses a claw tip to trace the air above the butterfly’s slowly flapping wing, a ghost touch.

  I sniff back my tears. “You know it’s dying, right?”

  “What?” he gasps in what sure looks like genuine shock. “No!” He looks down in horror. “Why? Is it because I took it? I tried to be so careful…”

  He looks like he’s about to drop to his knees and set it down on the stoop, so I take his wrist to stop him. Rationally, I know he has to know about the short lives of butterflies. Everybody knows that about butterflies.

  But... he’s so appalled, it makes me want to comfort him. If he’s acting, he’s really good at it. One hundred percent—his expression, his posture, and the clear notes of regret in his voice… He looks so wrecked, I’d almost believe this is the first time he’s been informed that these beautiful things don’t last.

  Two long ears make an appearance on the sides of his head; they unfold, like—like… not-fake ears. They swivel and flick, and do not at all look like costume pieces.

  Austin has Lego sets in two sizes, and you can’t put the pieces together unless you find the bridge pieces. That’s my brain right now: I’m having trouble snapping together the sets of information I’m seeing, and the reality I know to be true. Either this is an over the top fx trick and I’m being filmed in an elaborate prank, or this guy… this guy is exactly what he looks like: Not human.

  His eyes catch mine. These aren’t costume eyes. They’re a very real, otherworldly shamrock, and why am I not on the phone calling the police, or—I snap a glance at his horns again—the military?

  Because his eyes are nice. And they’re imploring me to make this all okay.

  I wish I could make things okay. I wish I could make lots of things okay.

  I can’t.

  This creature just wants to help this sad little butterfly. My chest rises and falls on a slow exhale. “It’s not your fault. And there’s nothing you can do—it’s really late in the season. To see a butterfly at all is rare, and that you found this one here...”

  His eyes drop to where I’m touching him, and he stares so long that I let him go and apologize. “I’m sorry, I...”

  His eyes snap to mine, the strike of green momentarily stunning me with their intensity. “Real beauties are rare.” His voice turns inward, like he’s speaking to himself. “How very blessed I am to have found myself here.” He holds out his cupped hands to me again, the dying butterfly so pretty as it lowers its wings to rest on him. “Will you show me how to make this one comfortable while it passes to the next realm?”

  “MA!” Austin hollers, curious why I’m standing half outside.

  “Hang on, buddy,” I tell him. Before I can answer our visitor, Chris pushes past me and hops down into the garden, making the loose woodchips fly up. “Give it here—I’ll help.”

  The stranger sends me a glance as if he’s asking for permission, and without thinking, I give him a nod. He moves to join Chris, grimacing as he uses his free hand to collect a small metal tube from the ground where it fell off the wind chime. “I’m afraid I damaged your sentry,” he says apologetically.

  “It’s fine,” I assure him, feeling touched at his concern for an insect and my yard ornamentation, even if he is interrupting our day and our crisis-in-progress.

  The hollow tube he’s holding is supposed to suspend from a little metal dangling thing. He fiddles with it, trying to get the pieces to stick together, but the chime has snapped off. There’s no fixing it. Oh well. This doesn’t even make my list of worries for today. I’m about to tell him exactly that when he opens his mouth and breathes fire.