The Araks, a friendly race of dragon-like aliens, are oppressed by the insect-like Kronians. The ruling humanoid Eilons take part in the war only when the Kronians conquer reserve planets like Earth.
Twenty-one-year-old Marco Giardelli is an Italian medical student. He is driving home from a party when he witnesses the landing of an Arak escape pod.
An agent of the Eilon Control Agency visits Marco to give him the bad news, and tells him he must safeguard the dragoness until the agency can mount up a rescue.
Invasion is the first book of The Dragoness From Space trilogy—where Marco and Kalexis’ interracial romance becomes the pivotal element of an intergalactic show. Epic action and adventure, mature themes, explicit humor, and unprecedented alien civilizations await you.
A towering vertical cloud ruled the night sky, its lumps flashing purple and blue—the vibration shook Marco’s van, muffling the speed metal pumping out of the speakers.
Raindrops poured over the dusty hot tarmac, forcing him to set the wipers to full speed. Even though the van was underpowered, he enjoyed a bit of its understeer through a hairpin corner, straightening it to accelerate on the following incline. He had to stick to second gear to keep the four-cylinder engine going, bringing his nose up against the windshield, he could barely distinguish the thick copse to his left and the guardrail to the right marking the impending edge of a ravine.
He damned the bad weather.
Marco was on a secluded mountain route, with no lampposts and—in theory—no traffic. To reach the hamlet he called home, he could have gone east on Super Highway 142, coasting the Alps for a dozen clicks before exiting on Provincial Road 232—this led through industrious valley floor towns and up to well-lit villages perched on the hillside.
The reason why he didn’t take the highway was due to having more than a few drinks, and by tackling the roads to the mountains north of the city, he slimmed his chances of being pulled over by the police.
It was very early Sunday morning, and he was getting back from a smashing party. Everything about it had been great except that girl he spoke to—before she introduced him to her boyfriend. His best mate scored, leaving Marco without a place to stay. That might have been why he found himself driving drunk to his own bed.
The winding, cracked, and potholed slab of tarmac overlay an ancient path beaten by herders to reach the high pastures in those early summer months. Luckily for Marco, their cows and tractors weren’t around at that time of morning, nor was any other vehicle. With the passing minutes, the rainfall became more of a waterfall, yet he didn’t slow down as the alcohol and solitude kept him driving over the speed limit.
He failed to notice the black and white arrow signs indicating a right hand corner. He slammed on the brakes the moment he caught sight of the brick wall, and the van fishtailed before stopping less than three feet from it.
He crunched into reverse, making the vehicle lurch with a shriek. He considered taking a break but there was no place to stop, having to go through a tunnel before finding a parking space in a near village. He planned to wait out the worst of the storm—and of his bender.
Empowered by speed metal, he floored it and reached the tunnel, yellow lights swishing faster over the red metallic paint. The van zoomed out to cut one through the wall of rain. Five minutes later, he made it to the old stone and brick village and just went past it. At the first junction, he switched to a downhill road with more corners through the woods.
Heading for the concrete bridge that leaped across the valley, Marco head-banged to a drum solo at speed. After the ditch to his left, a low dry wall bordered a dark field. The wild and tangled woods rushed past on the other side of the uneven tarmac, descending all the way to the rocky rushing bottom of that vale.
On the straight, Marco widened his eyes. There was something bright and round up above, in an unusual hue of orange. Despite being startled and under the influence, he realized the object was falling fast and about to collide with him. His poor conscious judgment was to stomp on the brakes in the midst of a guitar flurry. He was late to realize he kept his foot planted on the accelerator, doing over sixty miles an hour. He failed to control the van as it spun hard, tires screeching sideways across the opposite carriageway to bounce and slide into the trough.
The object crash-landed in the field with a bang. Marco tried to regain control, but by steering hard, alternating in both directions, he only managed to keep the van straight while it traveled backward on slush. Heavy chunks of earth, thrown in the air by the fallen object, dented the roof before the van came to a halt with its engine stalled. Red and yellow warning lights flashed on, and after a second or so of looking at them, Marco punched in the dashboard while he produced a profusion of colorful Italian swearwords. He then unplugged the Cacophony record and just stared out the windshield, transfixed by the squeaking wipers, how they struggled in keeping up with the hard rain.