by Ruby Dixon
Clearly the gods have sent her to me so I might learn patience. I smile ruefully. It is not my strongest trait. “Very well, little one,” I say to her and brush my fingers over her strange, smooth skin. “You and I shall learn patience together.”
“Dnt nnerstnd yew.”
Her words trip and tumble off of her agile mouth. I notice her fangs are gone, and my heart stills in my breast, my khui ceasing its resonance. Despite her slapping touch, I peel her lips back to examine her teeth. Are they broken?
But no, it appears as if her small teeth are just that: whole and not nearly as large as my own front tusks. Strange creature.
I release her, and she slaps my hands away, her strange eyes narrowing. “Fckoffwth tht.”
Her body is different than that of a sa-khui. She’s soft and hairless in most places, and I haven’t seen a tail. And then there’s that strange nipple between her legs. I find it arousing because it makes me think of how she tastes. I want her on my tongue again. Even now, my mouth waters in remembrance, and my khui resonates in my chest.
So I just sit back and watch her, to see what she will do next.
She gathers her strange leathers around her, determined to cover her small, soft body. Is she cold? My protective instinct rises, and I turn to the fire, feeding more of the stored wood to it. I will need to chop wood and refill the stores here for the next hunter, but it’s a task I will gladly do for my mate. I want her to be warm and comfortable.
Once I build up the fire, she moves closer to it and puts her hands near the flames. They look . . . strange. “You have five fingers,” I tell her and hold my own hand up. I have four. It is yet another difference between us. I’m fascinated and a little revolted by those extra fingers.
Her hand touches her chest. “Shhheorshie.” She pats her breast again and looks at me. “Haim sheorshie.”
Is there something wrong with her chest now? Is she trying to tell me her khui is gone? It’s as obvious as her dull white eyes. “Yes, I know,” I tell her. “Fear not. We will perform the ceremony when we return home to the tribe.”
“Shhheorshie,” she says, patting her breast again, and then reaches out and pats my chest. She looks at me expectantly.
Is she asking about my resonance? I press her small hand to my chest so she can feel my khui vibrate. She jerks away, startled, and looks up at me with wide eyes. “Whtws tht? Thtcher naym?”
“Resonance,” I explain to her, and my khui hums at her touch.
She looks at me with such shock that I start to feel a sense of unease. When she puts her hand on my chest again and I resonate, she pulls her hand away so quickly that it’s as if she’s touched something ice cold.
“Hiee cnt pru nownsce tht,” she tells me and presses her hand to my chest again, then back to hers. “Sheeorshie.”
“Sheeorshie,” I echo.
Her face brightens. “Ys!” She gives her chest a happy pat. “Shrsie!”
It’s not her trying to tell me about her khui or her lack of resonance. It’s her name.
She touches her chest again and looks at me expectantly.
Baffled, I touch my own chest. “Vektal.”
Her jaw juts, and she tries to say my name properly. It comes out more as “Huptal.” She’s unable to make the swallowed first syllable properly. It’s all right. It’s a start.
“Huptal,” she says happily and pats her shoulders again. “Shorshie.”
Her own name is garbled syllables, but I try to pronounce it to make her happy. Shorshie she is.
And Shorshie is a mystery to me. She has no tail, no fur. She wears strange leathers and walks the dangerous hunting lands with no weapons. She’s weak and soft and has no khui, and she does not speak a word of proper language.
It makes no sense. How can Shorshie be here? Every creature has a khui. My people, the sa-khui, are the only intelligent people in the world. There are metlaks, but they are covered in hair and no smarter than rocks. They have not yet mastered fire.
Shorshie is smart. She doesn’t flinch away from the fire like a metlak. She recognizes it. And she is wearing cured leather. Her boots are finer than any I have seen. Shorshie has come from a people from somewhere.
But where? I can’t ask her. We can barely communicate.
And then it occurs to me that . . . she is not resonating. She doesn’t feel what I do, because she has no khui. Maybe she never has.
I’m hit with a sense of loss so strong it makes me bare my teeth. This . . . this cannot happen. How is it that she cannot resonate to me? That we are not connected? It is as if I have found my other half after so long…and she is dead to me. The thought chokes me. To lack a khui is a death sentence. To see Shorshie so vibrant and so doomed makes my soul ache.
But no. She is my mate. My other half. I’ll do whatever is necessary to keep her.
GEORGIE
He’s got fire. That’s a big plus in my book. I rub my hands close to the flames and bask in its warmth. It’s driving away the chill from the outside. The wind is whistling through the door flap, and I can see it’s getting dark outside, but I’m decently warm in this cave as long as I’m near the fire. Guiltily, I think of Liz and Kira and the others. Surely they can stay warm by huddling together, can’t they?
I look up as Vektal begins to pace in the small cave. He looks troubled, and that makes me feel edgy. It’s like I’ve done something wrong, and I’ve no clue what. He keeps purring at me, so I thought he was happy? But I guess not.
My stomach growls, and I press a hand to it. Time for a seaweed bar. I check the pockets of my stolen jumpsuit, but I don’t find anything and begin to panic. Now I’ve lost my food and my weapon. The only things I’ve got left are the boots that pinch my feet and the jumpsuit. Man, I am shitty at this exploring thing. Ugh.
He moves and kneels next to me, and I instinctively shrink back. I give Vektal a wary look. His mouth felt good on me a short time ago, but I know what he wants and I’m leery of him standing too close.
But he only gestures at my stomach. “Kuuuusk?” There are a wealth of tones in that word that I won’t be able to emulate. It’s like he’s doing some weird vibrating thing in the back of his throat.
“Hungry,” I say to him and pat my stomach. Then I mime eating.
He points at my teeth and asks another question. Right. Something about them bothers him. I bare them to show him they’re fine, and he bares his own in response to me.
Fangs. Of course he’s got fangs. His canines are three times the size of mine, and they look brutal. No wonder he’s mystified by my short, blunt teeth. “Hope those are for chewing vegetables,” I tell him brightly.
He pulls off a fur cape and boy, am I glad to see that it’s clothing and not part of him. I can handle the horns, I think. But I’m glad that the shaggy fur isn’t his. Looking at him again, I see that a lot of his bulk might be clothing. That’s good. There’s no disguising that he’s seven feet tall, though.
I watch as he undresses, wary. “I hope you didn’t mistake my stomach growling for nookie-time.”
The fur cape goes to the floor of the cave, and my eyes open wide at the sight of his clothing underneath. I think it’s leather, and it’s all a similar soft bluish-gray shade that makes me think of a cloudy day. It also doesn’t look very warm. His arms are bare, and his chest is covered by a vest that seems to be made entirely of pockets and laces. It holds a few wicked-looking bone knives strapped to his chest. He’s got a lot of flesh exposed despite the blizzard raging outside, and I wonder just how warm that stupid cape is.
And if I can steal it.
“Probably a bad idea, Georgie,” I tell myself. “This guy’s your only buddy at the moment.”
Even if he does want to just lick my pussy. I clamp my thighs together tightly at the memory and try not to blush. I go back to ogling the alien. His arms are bare and show a crazy amount of corded muscle. They’re enormous and intimidating, and I imagine the pectorals under the leather vest are equally as staggering.
He pulls a strap from over one shoulder, and I see that in addition to the myriad buckles and pouches, he’s got a bag slung across his chest. My stomach growls again. He might have food.
Real food. Not seaweed bars.
My mouth waters, and I clasp my hands together tightly to keep from reaching for him. I’ve never been so hungry in my life. He opens his satchel and produces a bladder of some kind that must be a water skin along with a leather-wrapped package. He hands it to me, and I unwrap it. There in the wrappings are a few thick bars of what looks like meat mixed with an oatmeal of some kind. Travel rations. Has to be. I tremble and look up at him. “Is this for me?”
“Kuuus-kah,” he says in that weird language of his, and he mimes breaking off a piece and eating it.
I could kiss him right now, fangs and all. “Thank you,” I say and break off a large piece. I don’t care if I seem greedy or not. I’m starving. I cram the entire piece into my mouth and begin to chew.
Right away, I can tell it’s a mistake.
The taste is . . . well, awful is the kindest word I can think of. It’s like I’ve bitten into a package of jalapeno peppers mixed with a vile, mealy texture. The spices are so strong that my nose and eyes immediately water. I cough, desperately trying to swallow the mouthful I’ve got, but it’s burning my tongue. I end up choking and spitting out half the food into my hand, all the while the alien looks on curiously.
It’s brutal. I gag and cough for a moment more, until he pushes the skin into my hand and barks out a short word. I cautiously take a sip, afraid of what it’ll taste like. To my relief, the water is cool and refreshing, and has a masked hint of citrus to the taste. I guzzle it with relief, and my choked coughing slowly abates.
I push the dried food back to him and shake my head. Even if I wanted to eat it—and oh, do I want to—I can’t. Just the thought of putting even a small piece into my mouth makes my jaw clench up. My stomach issues a miserable protest.
The alien is mystified by my rejection of the food. He examines my mouth again and tries to touch my tongue. I brush his questioning hand aside. “The problem isn’t my mouth, it’s your food.”
He says something in his gibberish language and gestures at my bruises. Oh. He thinks I’m hurt and that’s why I can’t eat. I shake my head. “I’m fine. Really.”
The alien—Vektal—gazes at me curiously.
“I don’t suppose there’s a nice city full of friendly aliens a short distance away?” I ask. The small cave’s getting colder, and the air whistles, so I hitch my jacket a bit closer to my body.
Vektal picks up his fur cape and drapes it over my shoulders, talking to me in that weird rumbly language.
“Thanks,” I say and hug it closer. He’s not putting clothes on, so the cold must not be bothering him as much. I eye him as he bends over and feeds another log to the fire.
He’s got a tail. Okay. Lots of things have tails. That’s not so weird. I’m trying not to get weirded out by him, but he’s just so . . . different. His horns, for one. The hand that places another piece of wood on the fire has only four fingers. The boots on his feet look like a soft leather but are shaped extremely wide at the toes, so I can only wonder what’s going on in there.
Oh, and he’s a smoky gray-blue. Can’t forget that part. And he purrs. So yeah, other than being bipedal, maybe he’s not much like me after all.
“Sheorshie,” he says, mangling my name. He repeats it and then gives me a frown and a shake of his braided black hair. “Sheorshie Vektal,” he says again, then points at his eye and then shakes his head.
“I don’t know what you’re trying to say to me,” I tell him. “That I’m not like you? I know I’m not.” I point at his food. “I wish to God I could eat this, but I can’t.” My eyes brim with exhausted tears. Everything feels as if it’s crashing down on me. “You have no idea how much my life has sucked in the last two weeks.”
He says something in a softer voice and wipes away the tear that spills down my cheek. I notice his skin feels like suede or chamois. It’s . . . nice. It feels friendly even if everything else in the world is all fucked up.
Vektal tugs the cloak down tighter on me. He pats the furs by the fire and says something else. My guess is that it’s something akin to “rest here” because he pats the furs again and waits. I lie down. I’m warm and snuggled in furs and for the first time in what feels like forever, I don’t feel like I’m in imminent danger. All this alien wants is oral sex.
The thought makes me giggle inwardly, and I’m smiling as I fall asleep.
• • •
I wake up later, feeling better than I have in a long, long time. I’m warm and under a thick blanket, and I’m cuddled up against a big, hard form that’s warmer than any heating pad. My fingers move over the surface. It feels like suede over bone, and I realize after I hear the soft purring begin that I’m pressed up against Vektal’s chest.
It’s . . . not the worst place in the world to be. I mean, if I have my choice between the old cargo bay, alone in the snow, or snuggled next to the pussy-loving alien, I’m going to go with option number three.
I debate pretending to remain asleep, but there’s something big and hard prodding into my stomach that tells me that Vektal’s conscious, acutely aware of my presence, and far more generously equipped than any guy I’ve ever met.
I sit up, tugging the blankets around me. My breath fogs in the air, and I glance around the cave. Weak sunlight is pouring in through the door flap, and the fire has gone out. It’s bitterly cold unless I’m pressed next to Vektal, and the urge to crawl back against him and huddle for warmth is real and strong.
But he sits up and begins to adjust his clothing. “Vy droskh,” he tells me. I don’t know if that’s “good morning” or “damn it’s cold” or what. He gets up, and as he does, my stomach rumbles again.
Vektal squints at me.
“I know,” I say. “Trust me, I know.” It’s embarrassing for me, too.
He begins to unwrap the food from last night, but I make a face and shake my head. I mime that it burns my tongue. He chuckles and then makes a gesture that looks like a rocking baby, which puzzles me. I’m not following this conversation at all.
“Hungry,” I say. I rub my stomach and mime eating something. “Food?” Every inch of me feels like a mooch for finding a guy and then demanding he feed me, but “food” is easier to mime than “If you’d give me a nice weapon I’d catch my own breakfast.” For right now, we have to proceed in baby steps.
Vektal nods and begins to put on the gear he discarded overnight. He’s bare-chested this morning, and his pectorals are just as grimly fascinating as I suspected they would be. They’re like slabs of cold iron over his smoky blue chest. I remember the warm, suede-feel of his skin. He sure was nice to rub up against. I watch him dress, intrigued by the differences in our bodies. Over certain spots on his body, he has knobby ridges. They trail along the back of each arm to his elbow. The ridges glide down the center of his chest and smooth out somewhere between his pectorals and his navel. And his thighs have the bumpy, textured ridges, too. I wonder what purpose they’re for. They decorate his brow, too, and right down his nose.
He’s in a talky mood this morning, too. He holds a one-sided conversation with me as he slings his vest back over his chest and begins to tie his knives and blades back to their proper spots. I want to ask for one, but I don’t know his culture. Maybe it’s taboo for him to give me one and I’d insult him by asking. Right now I’m wary of pissing him off, because he’s the only lifeline I’ve got. I watch my breath fog in the air again as he continues talking, and I think of the girls at the ship, huddled together.
I hope they’re okay. God, I hope they’re okay. I need to get back to them today so they don’t worry. I can tell them what I’ve found . . .
Which, really, isn’t much. I’ve found face-eating fish that have stalks that look like bamboo. I’ve found a warm stream (full of the aforementioned face-eating fish), and I’ve found an alien that likes to eat pussy as a greeting.
All three things won’t help us get home. I haven’t found a city. I haven’t found another ship. I sure haven’t found anyone that speaks English. And to make matters worse, I’ve lost our only weapon. I’m not doing so hot at this save-the-day thing.
Vektal finishes tying his bags and pouches and then slips on boots. I sneak a peek at his toes just to satisfy my curiosity. Three large, splayed toes and a bony heel that was probably a fourth toe at some point in evolution. I probably wouldn’t be able to wear his boots either, and the thought depresses me as I shove my feet back into my uncomfortable stolen boots.
I stand and spots swim before my eyes. I weave, only to be pulled against a hard chest. He murmurs something in my ear and offers the food again, but I push it away. I’m not being picky. I cannot physically eat the stuff. I accept the water he pushes into my hand, and I drink it, but it’s not going to last me. Maybe I can convince Vektal to go back to where he captured me so I can hunt for my seaweed bars. At this point, I’m so hungry I’ll eat them even if they’ve turned to a block of ice overnight.
He leads me out of the cave, watching me as I follow him. A new powder has fallen overnight, and I look at the deeper snow with despair. So much for finding my old supplies.
Vektal gestures at his shoulders, bare of any sort of cloak since I’m wearing it. He kneels and indicates that I should climb onto his back and put my arms around his neck, piggy-back style. Well, this is humiliating. But I’m so tired and weak that I don’t protest. I put my arms around him and cling to his back, wrapping my legs around his waist. He pats one of the arms around his neck, says something soothing, and then he starts racing down the side of the mountain.
I’m stunned for a moment at how fast he is. He’s unaffected by the snow, his boots driving through the powder as if it’s nothing. He burns like a furnace inside, too, his skin so warm to the touch that the parts touching him are toasty warm and the parts exposed to the wind are like sticking a hand in a bucket of ice. It makes me burrow down even closer to his body once I realize he doesn’t need the cape at all. He’s just fine in this wintry landscape without it. So I push my head against his neck and press my cold face into his warm hair. He smells good, too.
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