Beyond the Next Star

by Melody Johnson

  She shuddered. Everything else from that moment forward was just impressions: being cold, shouting, a softness against her cheek. And then being burned by Joennel and Roerik.

  She frowned, struggling to make sense of everything. Joennel and Roerik wouldn’t burn her, not intentionally, and as much as she disliked Brinon, he wouldn’t let them.

  Delaney lifted her hands from under the covers and stared at her palms. They weren’t burned. They were healed.

  “Go! Take Reshna and leave!”

  She attempted to stand, but her legs refused to support her weight. They shook, threatening to give out. She fisted her hand in the fur comforter draped over his bed and clawed to her knees. Even then she needed the support to stay upright, and when her eyes locked on Torek lying in bed, she nearly fell over anyway.

  Torek’s fur was dark, matted, and slick with moisture. She’d have thought him newly showered, he was that drenched, except that the little parts of him where his fur thinned to show skin—his upper lip, his nostrils, his eyelids, inside his ears, even—were beaded with sweat. His lips were dry, split, and peeling. His eyes were opening and closing sporadically, as if he was fighting to stay conscious, and when they were open, they were wide with fear and unfocused. They scanned the room, unseeing, or maybe seeing something other than the reality of the room around him.

  “Take Reshna and go. Now!”

  Saying that Torek wasn’t well had been a gross understatement. Having a head cold was unwell. Having a churning stomach from eating too much fried food was unwell. Having a raging fever and shouting to imaginary people in your delirium? That was a whole new level of unwell. He was sick. Very sick.

  Why hadn’t that man forced the broth down Torek’s throat?

  “That’s a command! Hurry!”

  His voice cracked on command so that hurry was nothing but a weak echo. Below the rage and fear holding the last threads of his consciousness together, he was fading fast. Torek wouldn’t last much longer in this state before taking a turn for the worse—assuming that turn hadn’t already happened.

  “Go! All of you. Don’t. Wait. Me.” He croaked, gasping between words.

  Delaney climbed up onto the mattress, clinging to the fur comforter in fistfuls to hoist herself up. It shouldn’t have been this difficult to crawl into his bed. She’d hopped up on the mattress every night for weeks without collapsing from the effort, but she did now, dizzy and spent from the simple task. Maybe the man had been sugarcoating the state of her health too.

  Where the hell was her broth?

  “Take Reshna, and—”

  She touched the back of her hand to the sweat-slicked fur of his forehead and cursed sharply. He was radiating heat. He needed more than just broth. He needed a cold compress, water, and ibuprofen for the fever. He needed—

  He grabbed her wrist in his meaty hand and squeezed. He wasn’t even looking at her. His gaze was focused on a corner near the ceiling, his eyes wide and terrified by whatever he thought he was seeing. If he squeezed any harder, he was going to snap a bone.

  Desperate, Delaney did the one thing she hadn’t done in months, breaking the most important rule that Keil had ingrained in her. The only one she wholeheartedly agreed with. She spoke.

  “Torek, no. Please,” she pleaded.

  Her Lori pronunciation was atrocious. Her voice was rough and cracked, and besides which, she didn’t have the right anatomy to produce the proper growls and deep inflections required for speaking his language. But she had to try.

  Torek heard her. He didn’t seem to see her, and he didn’t release her. But he stopped squeezing.

  His head whipped to her a moment later, a delayed reaction to hearing her voice. He looked right into her eyes. His were sunken and bloodshot. His grip, so strong, was trembling. The scar across his face, always a stark slash against the dark fur, seemed more prominent, and Delaney’s breath caught in the back of her throat. Maybe he wasn’t as delirious as he seemed. God, how would he react to his golden retriever speaking to him?

  “Take Reshna. Go! Save—”

  “Reshna is fine,” Delaney said, her words exhaled on a rush of relief. “Everyone is fine.”

  “Reshna is fine? They made it”—he coughed, a wet, racking sound—“off Viprok d’Orell? Everyone?”

  “Yes. Everyone is fine.”

  Delaney tried to viurr, but as usual, she just sounded congested. Nonetheless, Torek closed his eyes. His body eased back into the comforter. The grip on her wrist loosened, and his head drooped to the side.

  “Good,” he murmured. “That’s good.”

  “You know what’s better?” Delaney reached for the bowl of broth and nearly dropped it. Christ, it was heavy. Was she really so weak that her biceps quivered from holding a bowl? It was a big bowl, but still.

  She replayed Torek’s rant in her mind. He’d been commanding someone to take her and go. To save everyone and what, leave him to die?

  Maybe they’d listened to him.

  What had happened out there?

  She spooned up some broth and forced it between his lips. He choked at first, having allowed the broth to drop down his throat without swallowing. But then he swallowed. Delaney spooned up another helping. He swallowed a second time with less choking, then a third and fourth and fifth time until he settled back into the bed, completely unconscious. Half the bowl was still full.

  It wasn’t that big a bowl.

  Delaney sighed, staring at the line of Torek’s stubborn jaw, relaxed in unconsciousness. His breathing was deep and steady, even if his chest rattled with each inhale. A few drops of broth had dripped into the longer fur of his chin—his beard, she supposed. Delaney reached out to wipe it from his mouth.

  His lips were softer than they looked. Relaxed instead of sternly compressed, they were more full than usual. Her gaze wandered across his face, along the close-cropped fur along the side of his jaw, and down the sharp curve of his corded neck to his firm, well-defined pecs.

  The lorienok were a large, muscle-heavy species to begin with, but thanks to his ritualistic workouts and regimented lifestyle, Torek’s muscles were developed for real work. He could run the miles of that mountainous ice trail for hours without stopping. He could carry Delaney on his hip like she weighed no more than a toddler and probably still run. He could hold her immobile, pinned to the floor with a hip and one hand, controlling her more easily than Delaney had ever been able to control Mrs. Todd’s damn Pomeranian.

  But he could still die from a fever.

  Delaney placed her hand on Torek’s chest. The rapid but strong double thump of his heart squeezed something inside her own chest. The ache spread outward with each beat—constricting her breath, accelerating her heart, heightening her awareness—and then the ache dropped lower, between her legs in a deep throb.

  She pulled her hand back sharply, nearly spilling the remaining broth on the comforter.

  The broth. Couldn’t waste perfectly good broth. Delaney took up the spoon with her shaking hand—anything to distract herself from her own feelings—and helped herself. The broth was still warm. It wasn’t particularly flavorful, but the moment she swallowed, her stomach seemed to wake from a long slumber. It released a long, deep growl, suddenly ravenous.

  Less than thirty seconds and half as many swallows later, the spoon clattered into an empty bowl. She blinked, stunned. She’d completely polished it off.

  She glanced at Torek, still unconscious, and then at the door behind her, still closed. Should she attempt to find more broth? What would they think if someone caught her carrying a bowl back to the room? Dogs carried bones. Maybe they’d think she was just scavenging. Maybe—

  She yawned. Before she could make up her mind, exhaustion took her. She stretched out to place the bowl on the bedside table and almost collapsed from the effort. The bowl was empty. Why was it still so heavy?

  She dropped onto her side, facing Torek and his unscarred cheek. In profile, his muzzle had a hump on its bridge and poin
ted down at its tip. His ears were small in comparison, tucked neatly against his head. Delaney wondered idly about Torek’s age. Considering his position in society and mature disposition, she’d guess late forties, but if she remembered her lessons correctly, lorienok aged more slowly than humans. But Torek was battle hardened; his scars indicated that maybe he’d been forced to grow up fast. He didn’t have a wife or children, but that could be a lifestyle choice rather than an indication of age. Or maybe he simply hadn’t found love.

  Delaney rolled her eyes at herself and turned over. However old he was, he was fit and formerly a hulking health advertisement. He would beat this fever. He’d need more liquids, and so would she, but until she figured out a plan to find more food, they also needed rest.

  She wriggled under the comforter and closed her eyes. Just as she began to drift, the weight of a furry hand slid over her hip. On a normal night, Torek would just grab and drag her into his embrace, and honestly, he was so warm and soft, like an extra blanket, that she usually didn’t mind. But this wasn’t a normal night. Her stomach under his palm warmed, but she remained stiff and kept the distance between them even though the rest of her was cold. Nothing was more chilling than that lingering throb.

  Thirteen

  Someone was in the bedroom.

  The door had opened a moment ago, and the squeak of its hinge jarred Delaney fully awake. She’d been toying with the idea of leaving the bed, but what was the point of subjecting her body to the nip in the air that her nose was enduring without a solid plan for what to do afterward? The light slanting through the narrow window was dim and golden. Several hours must have passed since she’d fallen asleep. Midday had fallen to dusk, and the temperature had fallen with it. On a normal day, Torek’s watch would be chirping, reminding him to finish his final bout of rounds to make dinner.

  This was anything but a normal day. Torek wasn’t even wearing his watch, and judging by the heavy weight of his arm still draped over her hip, he wouldn’t be making dinner anytime soon.

  But someone had to.

  Footsteps creaked toward the bed.

  Delaney held her breath against the stab of fear jump-starting her heart. She opened her eyes.

  A young lor stood beside the bed, having moved faster and more quietly than she’d expected. His profile was at eye level as he bent to retrieve the bowl from the bedside table. He froze midreach, and, as Delaney watched, his lips lifted into a fierce, astonished smile.

  His head whipped to face her.

  “Commander?” he whispered. He was the same man who had brought the bowl and left in tears.

  Torek, still obviously unconscious, didn’t respond.

  The lor’s face was only a few inches from hers. This close, she realized that although his horns protruded from his head in a thick, intimidating curve, his ears were overly large in proportion. Instead of remaining immobile and tucked against his head, they poked out on either side of his face and seemed to move independently from each other, almost like a horse’s ears, but not quite that large. He was a young man on the cusp of true manhood, but young nonetheless.

  Some of her earlier hostility toward him dissipated—but only some. Torek was intimidating, there was no doubt about that, but he was sick. The young man shouldn’t have walked away. He needed to do something more than just shed a few tears and give up. Someone needed to do something, damn it.

  Delaney took a deep breath. The man had returned. Maybe he hadn’t quite given up yet.

  He leaned over Delaney, presumably to get a better look at Torek. Delaney rolled her eyes. Was he blind? What was there to see that couldn’t be discerned from a healthy five-foot distance? Torek was unconscious, feverish, and dehydrated. He needed liquids and a cold compress. Was that so difficult? And why the man didn’t just circle around to Torek’s side of the bed was a mystery.

  He leaned closer.

  Christ, his chest was inches from Delaney’s face. He was wearing something musky—maybe they did have cologne on Lorien, but Keil had never mentioned it—and it made her nose tickle.

  “Commander,” the man repeated. “Do you want more broth?”

  Delaney sneezed.

  The man straightened as if she’d electrocuted him.

  Torek stirred, rubbing her hip with his palm beneath the comforter.

  The man’s ears pricked forward. “Commander?”

  Torek fell back into unconsciousness.

  “Whatever you need. Please,” the young man begged. “I’m yours to command. More broth? Water, perhaps?” He gnawed his lip. “Geraevon Kore’Onik said your command is final, and I know you commanded me to leave. And I know you only have a fepherok.” He wrung his hands. “But it didn’t feel right not to check on you. Tell me what you need, Commander.”

  Nothing.

  The man’s ears drooped. He glanced down at Delaney with such sad, soulful eyes that when he reached for her with his big hand, she didn’t even tense. He stroked his fingers through her hair, leaned forward, and touched his forehead to hers.

  Then he backed out of the room, taking the empty bowl with him.

  Idiot! Delaney covered her head under the fur comforter and screamed on the inside. Why wasn’t Torek in a hospital, being treated by a medical professional with a degree and experience and a spine?

  If the young man wasn’t going help, Delaney would need to obtain the supplies they needed herself and risk being caught. She could sneak to the bathroom for water and washcloths easily enough, but more broth would require reheating at best, actual cooking at worst. Maybe they had premade broth, like soup cans. Would they notice if some went missing? Did they have can openers?

  Why hadn’t Torek allowed her in the kitchen pantry?

  She moved to whip off the comforter and froze as something occurred to her. Maybe he hadn’t allowed her in the pantry because of something in her manual. She racked her brain for something, anything that might have given him the impression that the pantry was dangerous.

  But even if she was found in the pantry, it wasn’t as if she was supposed to know that she wasn’t allowed in the pantry.

  Christ, being a pet was complicated.

  She glanced at Torek. He was still out.

  She turned toward the nightstand and waved her hand over the digital edition of her manual. The device lit up. She picked it up and brought it with her under the comforter. Torek’s palm was still cupping her hip. She grabbed his hand and pressed his thumb pad to the screen.

  The darkness under the comforter exploded with light as the device projected. She flinched, the harsh rays of the screen blasting her retinas. Torek didn’t so much as twitch. She set the device back on the bedside table, blinking to readjust her vision, but when the screen came into focus, she continued to blink, staring.

  This wasn’t just her manual. Icons were everywhere, swirling colors and flashing reminders. She reached out to one labeled Owner’s Manual: Human and hesitated. Next to her manual was an icon she recognized, a program she’d used with Keil to write her manual.

  A sly smile curved her lips. The man wasn’t going to help them without orders? She’d give him some orders.

  She selected the icon next to her manual, and the program sprang open to a page with dozens of files.

  “Open existing or start new,” the device intoned.

  Delaney froze. She stared at the door, but following the booming growl of the audio command request, the room and the hallway outside the door remained silent.

  “Open exist—”

  “Start new,” Delaney whispered, but one can’t properly pronounce Lori words in a whisper, not with all those growls and hacks and hard consonants.

  “Answer undetected. Please repeat. Open—”

  “Start new!”

  The screen flashed a bright white. The squiggly serpent of a cursor faded in and out, waiting on her command.

  Hmmmm.

  She considered the title, “Torek’s Commands.” To the point, but probably too much.

>   If she were Queen Sasquatch of the ice planet and unconscious with fever, how would she phrase her commands?

  She thought of how Torek spoke to his people: with confidence and kindness. He listened more than he spoke, and when he did speak, he didn’t mince words. Torek was direct, efficient, and effective.

  She bypassed a title. Simple was better. “Broth. Cup of water. Bowl of water. Towels. Soap. Brush. Toothbrush. Toothpaste.”

  She bit her lip, trying to think of the Lori word for their version of ibuprofen.

  She settled for “Medicine,” and then as an afterthought, “Thank you.”

  She left the screen on to project at the door and huddled down under the comforter to wait. Of course, this plan heavily relied on the assumption that the young lor charged with Torek’s care would return. If he thought Torek had eaten that bowl by himself, surely he’d return with more. Even without a command.

  Surely.

  The light of the projected list was nearly the only light remaining in the room, and Delaney had nibbled her remaining fingernails to their beds when the young lor finally returned.

  He halted at the door, startled by the projection. He blinked. His eyes scanned left to right, left to right, and a smile burst like a firecracker across his face.

  “Yes, Commander! Right away, Commander!” He ran back down the hall.

  Delaney settled under the comforter on a self-satisfied sigh.

  A few minutes later, the young man returned with everything on the list, including the ibuprofen. He set it all within easy reach on the bedside table, even going so far as to pivot the table so its long edge was flush against the bed. He nodded at his handiwork and beamed at Torek, his chest puffed.

  His smile faltered and then leaked away as he gazed upon Torek, but the pride remained.

  “Feel better, Commander. You’re on the mend now. I’ll look forward to your morning commands.”

  The man touched his heart, about-faced, and shut the door on his way out.

  Delaney blinked at the door and then at the bedside table, stunned by how efficiently her plan had worked.