by Ruby Dixon
His words sting. Saying they ‘accept’ me makes it sound as if I am the outsider. This is my tribe. I was here first. And it hurts my feelings. “Spare me your pity,” I tell him. “If I wanted to hear what you thought, I would have asked you to come to the howse. There is a reason why it was Farli that asked you here, not me.”
I hate the words even as they spit forth from my mouth like daggers. They are needles designed to launch and hurt, and they succeed. I can see the look on his face as his expression changes, growing cold. It is as if the warmth in his eyes ices over and leaves nothing but frost. Just like that, we are enemies again. My body needs his, but our spirits will never understand one another.
“I am sorry I came,” Hemalo says. Even now, his voice is so beautiful and pleasant that I want to weep. “Tell Farli I will be back to fix it tomorrow.” He steps away from the hole in the roof, and then moves carefully away from me, where I stand hugging my chest and hating the anger that fills me. “I will make sure to come by when you are not home.”
And now I am the one being hurt. This is what I want, right? But the thought of him deliberately avoiding me, deliberately avoiding my house when I am here because he does not wish to talk to me? Even as it makes me angry, it also hurts and makes me feel empty inside. But I lift my chin. “Good. Leave. It is what you are best at.”
He stiffens. Hemalo stops and turns back to me. His nostrils flare and his tail flips wildly, the only signs that I have upset him. “You say that as if you think I wanted to leave.”
“Did you not?”
“No.” The quiet word echoes in the howse between us.
My heart flutters wildly. “If it was something you did not wish to do,” I say, stepping forward, my every movement a confrontation, “it seemed rather easy for you to do.”
“Is that what you think?” He takes a step toward me, and I realize he is devouring me with his eyes, his khui humming. “That it is easy for me to walk away?”
“Should I think differently?” I whisper. I can barely hear my own thoughts over the pounding of my heart. Why am I so nervous around him? So very tense? It is like my entire body is coiled into one anxious knot.
Hemalo gazes down at me, and I think for a moment that he is going to touch me. That he will reach out and brush his knuckles over my cheek. Just the thought of that small touch makes my body react, and my khui hums even louder. His joins it, and the song between us seems to fill the air.
It takes me a moment to realize what is happening. That the joined song of our khuis should not be so loud, so overwhelmingly strong that they take over the air around us. That my pulse should not be thrumming so hard that my heart feels as if it will leap from my chest. That I should not be so very aroused by the nearness of my mate.
I open my mouth, and the humming of my khui is so loud it erupts from my throat, my entire body vibrating with the ferocity of its song.
Resonance.
Hemalo’s eyes widen in surprise. His hand goes to his chest and he places his palm flat over the center of his heart, as if he can feel the heart beating under the plating there. I can hear it, though. I can hear his khui singing to mine.
“Resonance,” he breathes, speaking the word aloud.
We are to mate again. We are to mate and have another kit.
I am…terrified. Completely and utterly terrified.
8
HEMALO
The wonder of the moment disappears in a heartbeat.
Resonance. I am to have a kit again. I am to bond with my mate again. Joy bursts through me, like the suns coming through the clouds after a long snowstorm. Even as I feel the smile spreading across my face, Asha begins to tremble. Her face pales, until she is so pale blue that she is almost the color of one of the strange-looking humans. Her tail goes limp. “No,” she breathes.
No?
This is the best thing that has ever happened to me. I am filled with joy at the thought of being able to experience the wonder of resonance with the female I love—again. To bring another kit into this world. To get a second chance with everything.
And my heart feels as if it is being squeezed by a fist when her eyes well up and she begins to cry.
She does not want this. She does not want a second chance. “Do not cry, Asha. Please.” I begin to panic, my mind spinning through possible things to say to calm her tears. “Nothing has to be done.”
She gives me an incredulous look. “Nothing has to be done? We have resonated! There is no denying resonance!”
“Yet,” I say. “Nothing has to be decided yet.” I will give her as much time as my body will physically allow me. It does not matter if resonance makes me deathly ill—I will not push Asha into something that will hurt her spirit.
She throws her hands in the air. “Why do I even speak to you?”
Because you have no choice? I want to say, but she is already panicking. “Is resonating to me again so awful?” I know I have never been her mate of choice, but surely she would grow used to the idea over time? It is not inconceivable to resonate a second time to a mate, or even three or four times. But Asha acts staggered, as if I have plunged a knife into her chest.
She shakes her head slowly. “I…I cannot. Hemalo, I cannot.” She moves forward, and I think she moves to hug me, but her hands grip my vest, and the panic in her face is overwhelming to see.
“Do you not wish another kit?”
Agony moves over her face. “I…I do not know. I want Hashala. That is who I want.”
My poor mate. “She is gone,” I say gently, covering her hands with mine. “We cannot bring her back with thoughts or hopes. If so, she would be in your arms even now.” I reach out and caress her cheek. “But we can try again. We can have another kit. Resonance wants us to have another kit. And perhaps this time, we will have a healthy one to love and take care of.”
Asha moves away from me as if burned. “I love her,” she spits at me, suddenly furious. “She may have only lived for a hand of hours, but I loved her so. I still do.”
“I do, too. Do you think the pain of grief is solely yours?”
Her shaking hands press to her mouth. “I am so scared, Hemalo.”
I know she is. I know exactly what she is thinking. She is not scared of being mated to me—she is scared of it all going wrong again. Of the tentative, fragile bond we had between us being destroyed once more in the wake of unending grief. Of loss. Of bringing something so small, so fragile, and so loved into this world only to have it taken from you as quickly as it arrived. She does not need to say any of this. I know. Oh, I know.
I want this kit.
I want my mate, and I want my kit. I want the same happiness that the others in the tribe have. I think once Asha’s head clears, she will realize this is a wonderful thing. That we cannot live in fear or grief, but must keep living and loving. She will realize that Hashala would have wanted a sister or a brother. She would want her parents to be happy. “It is a good thing,” I tell her, and reach out to touch her again.
She pushes away from me, a panicked look on her face, and I realize I am going about this all wrong.
Asha needs time. I realize, slowly, even as my body throbs and aches with need for her, that I must give her time. The more I push and prod at her for something, the more she wants to run away. She does not like to be forced into something—one reason why our resonance went so sour. She likes for things to be her decision. She is stubborn, my mate. Stubborn and magnificent.
She will come to terms with our resonance, but she must come to it in her own time.
My presence at her side will be seen as pushing her. Not to the tribe, who thinks we should be together, but to Asha, who resents that she did not choose me. I suspect she has always felt a bit trapped with me as her mate. I am not a hunter, nor am I the handsomest or cleverest in the tribe. I am steady when she craves excitement.
I am also patient, though. I know how Asha’s mind works. The more I push her to accept this, the harder she will fight. This
is why I could not help her when she was grieving. This is why I had to leave our mating.
She does not want me at her side. Until she comes to me and says she wishes to have me in her furs, I must give her space. The thought makes me ache, and I hate that it must be so. Why can I not take my mate in my arms and hug her? Rub noses and twine my tail with hers? Why must everything between us be a fight?
It makes me tired.
So I take her trembling hand in mine and give it a squeeze. “Asha,” I say, my voice low and calm. I must act as if I am not affected, as if her presence is not driving me wild with need. “Nothing must be done right away. I will leave and give you time to think about things.”
“What is there to think about?” she asks, and there is a bitter note in her voice. “It has already been decided. I am to be a mother even if my body cannot hold a kit and my mate hates me.”
“I do not hate you.” Hate is the furthest thing I feel for her. But I know that trying to hold Asha is like trying to hold a handful of snow—the tighter I grip, the more she will trickle between my fingers and disappear. “Rest,” I tell her. “Relax. We will talk in the morning.”
My slow, even words seem to finally get through to her. She nods, her movements jerky. “I need time to think.”
“I know.” I give her hand one final squeeze. “Take all the time you need.”
And because I love her, I will not be here when she finally comes to seek me.
CLAIRE
Song Day
“No, not another!” I moan in protest as one of the carolers approaches me with a gift. “I’m not playing!”
“Just take it and enjoy it,” Farli says with a toss of her hair. She is practically dancing with excitement at the fact that I’m getting an unexpected gift.
It’s day two of the celebrations, and the tribe—both sa-khui and human—have thrown themselves into the festivities with an enthusiasm that makes my heart glad. The longhouse has been decorated to the nines, and every inch of the place flutters with homemade seed-or-bark garlands, and our spindly, sad, pink tree is potted and sticks out of the opening in the roof of the lodge itself, too weak and unsteady to support a star or an angel topper. It doesn’t matter. Decorating Day was a success and everyone enjoyed it. The first of the Secret Santa—excuse me, Secret Gifting—gifts were handed out, and I’ve seen people showing off new gloves, scarves, and sharing treats from their gift-givers. It’s been fun to watch the excitement, and no one seems to mind when one particularly un-sneaky gift-giver or two gets caught in the act. It all adds to the merriment.
Today is the second day of terrible weather, which means we are plowing ahead with the next day of festivities—Song Day. It’s a mix of Christmas caroling and summer camp, as we are all hanging around by the blazing fire, roasting food on skewers and singing whatever songs come to mind. The sa-khui are terrible, tone-deaf singers and don’t have many songs that aren’t completely made up on the spot, so most of the actual singing falls back to the humans. It’s all fun, though. Everyone loved it when Tiffany sang ‘Ave Maria’ (perfectly, of course, because Tiffany is flawless) and they are currently enjoying Liz’s Batman version of ‘Jingle Bells.’ She and Josie are playing a game of one-up on who can think of the most annoying song, because between the two of them we’ve heard ‘John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt’ and ‘Henry the Eighth’ and ‘This is the Song that Never Ends,’ which the sa-khui found utterly hilarious. I’m having fun…or at least I was until the newest present showed up.
This is gift number four. Gift number two was a pouch of tea, and gift number three, a carved comb for my hair. I take the gift from Farli and hold it up, showing Ereven from across the fire where he sits next to Vektal and Georgie. He just shakes his head and laughs, amused at my frustration.
For a bit, I thought that Ereven was sneakily being the one providing gifts, but he’s been too surprised with each reveal, and it made me realize pretty quickly that it’s not him. It’s someone else, and no one’s coming forward. But who, and why? Frustrated, I pull open the tie on the pouch, acutely aware of the fact that a dozen people are watching me with interest. It’s a small tribe, and the gossip will be all over every hut before the hour is over. I peer inside, and the smell of toffee hits me. “Hraku seeds,” I announce. “Whoever it is, thank you.”
“Share the wealth,” Josie announces, making grabby hands at me.
I gladly hand them over to her. Josie’s having pregnancy cravings like mad and loves sweets. Stacy’s been trying to keep her supplied with things to munch on, but Josie’s been hoovering them up faster than Stacy can cook. “They’re all yours.”
“Oh, but it’s your gift. I only want a few.” She hesitates.
“I’m sure my gift-giver won’t mind me sharing with the tribe,” I say with a big smile, acting pleased that I’ve received another gift. In truth, it bugs me. I don’t like feeling beholden to anyone, and the fact that I’m getting all these gifts makes me worry what I’m overlooking. I’m afraid I’m going to turn around one day and someone will be there with their hand outstretched, expecting a favor or a gift of their own in return.
“I’ll get my skillet,” Stacy says with a grin, getting up from her seat by the fire next to her mate and child. “I suppose if we’re having a bonfire, we should have the Not-Hoth version of s’mores, too.”
Josie squeals with excitement. “Yay!”
“Who sings next?” someone asks.
“I will,” Megan says, standing up. She clears her throat dramatically and puts a hand out in front of her like an opera singer. “Me me me me me,” she sings, warming up. People giggle at her theatrics.
Her mate Cashol nods. “It is a simple song, but I like it. The words are easy to remember.”
“That’s not the song, babe.” She winks at him and then begins to sing the Hokey Pokey, complete with movements. A few people groan, but Esha and Sessah love it, moving along with Megan as she sings.
Stacy returns by the end of the song, and Georgie gets to her feet. “I just want to say how great the celebrations have been so far, and we have Claire to thank for it.” She claps her hands, and then everyone is clapping for me. It’s a gesture the sa-khui aren’t too familiar with, judging by the awkward smacks of their hands together, but the smiles and nods are universal.
“It’s nothing, really,” I say, feeling shy. “And Asha’s been such a big help.” I look around the fire for her, but she still hasn’t joined the group. Huh. I went to her house this morning, but Farli said she was sleeping in and she’d be along shortly. It’s been hours. Now I feel like the worst friend ever because I’ve been having fun and didn’t notice that she was missing. Is something wrong, I wonder? I look for her ex, but I don’t see Hemalo either.
And now I begin to worry. That’s not a good sign. I worry they’ve argued and Asha’s fragile happiness has disappeared again.
I get up and murmur something about heading to the ladies’ room, patting my belly as an excuse, and then head out into the village, making a beeline for Asha’s little house. There’s no smoke curl coming out of the teepee roof—no surprise given that everyone’s at the bonfire today—but it’s also super cold, which makes me worry about her. If I feel like my breath is crystallizing into ice in my lungs away from the warmth of the fire, it can’t feel much better for her. It’s more than that, though. She’s my friend, and I hate the thought of her being miserable when everyone else is having so much joy right now.
The privacy flap is over the door of the hut, and I hesitate, sa-khui etiquette ingrained in my brain. It’s the height of rudeness to speak to someone through the thing, but at the same time…she might need a friend. I drag my fingers over the edge of the flap, scratching at it in the alien way of ‘knocking.’ “Hello?” I call softly. “Asha, are you in there? It’s me, Claire.”
There’s a noise from within, but it doesn’t quite sound like a “come in.” I decide I’m going to interpret it as just that and claim poor human hearing if she g
ets upset. I push my way inside and glance around.
Asha’s here, all right. It’s bitterly cold inside, and the room is dark. She’s not sleeping, though. She’s seated in her furs, staring up at the roof, where a large gap has broken in the stitching of the hides that make up the teepee.
“Did that just happen?” I ask, moving to stand near her bedding. “Should I go get someone?”
“It has been that way for days,” Asha says in a curiously mild voice, almost as if she is half-asleep. “It is fine.”
Is it? I eye the hole and then look down at her. She doesn’t look upset, but has a thoughtful expression on her face. Her hair is braided and smooth, and she’s wearing her favorite tunic, which tells me that she hasn’t just woken up. “Are you feeling all right?”
She nods after a moment and then glances over at me.
“Can I sit?”
“Of course.” She moves over a little and pats the furs.
It’s no easy task to get my increasingly ungainly body down on the floor and into the pile of furs, but I manage it with her assistance. I tuck my legs under me and glance up at the hole that she’s watching, wondering what I’m supposed to see. “Did you…need another smoke hole?” I ask, teasing.
She looks over at me, startled, then laughs. “No, no smoke hole. It is just a mistake.” She sighs heavily and then glances down, rubbing her face. I notice that her hand—strikingly long and elegant compared to my own small one—is trembling.
My concern for her intensifies. “Asha, what is it?” I touch her arm. “What’s wrong?” When she hesitates, I say, “You can tell me, you know. I’m your friend. I won’t say anything to anyone if you don’t want me to.”
She nods slowly and looks down at her lap, clasping her hands there. “It is not a bad thing, Claire. Do not worry. I just…I do not know what to think of it.”
“What is it? Can you tell me?” I think of her missing mate. “Is it Hemalo? Did you fight?”
Asha gives a small snort. “I wish. We…” She glances down, takes a deep breath, and then looks over at me. “We resonated again.”