Alien Bride (Love, Drugs, and Biopunk)

by McGill, Brie

  Fingers curling, nails scratching at the stone, she pressed herself against the wall, shivering, trying to escape.

  He snapped the fabric open into a long, taut strip, and secured it over her eyes. Slipping a finger beneath the blindfold to determine its tension, he doubled the fabric over her eyes and tied a sturdy knot.

  Ninkasi whimpered. She would rather starve and die alone in this cell than deal with these insane people.

  He planted a steady hand against her back.

  Her body jerked.

  He nudged her away from the wall, ushering her in the direction of the door. “I’ll lead you.”

  She advanced with unsteady, frightened steps, disoriented by the unknown milieu.

  They passed the threshold of the holding cell. Her arms jutted out, fighting to balance herself, fingers sweeping through the door frame. Waves of unstoppable tears rumbled up her back and gushed from her eyes like waterfalls, soaking the blindfold.

  Hand pressing against her back, he guided her. “Slow down.”

  She felt a finger slip down the back of her shirt, tugging at the fabric.

  “There’s a stairwell.” Body pressing against her, he supported her torso, squeezing her ribs. His mask pressed against her head, and he spoke in a whisper. “Carefully, lift one foot. . .”

  She felt his breath in her ear. Ninkasi lifted one foot, gingerly, swiveling her ankle to feel for a landing.

  “Lean forward. . .” He grabbed her torso as if to pick her up. “And step. . .”

  Unable to judge the depth of movement in her blindness, she stumbled and slipped forward.

  His strong arms cradled her, catching her before she hit the stairs.

  She let out a wail of surprise, cringing in his grasp.

  “Change of plans.” He scooped her off the floor, carrying her like a bride, a conquest in his arms.

  Ninkasi flailed her arms, latching one around his neck to steady herself.

  He soared up stairwell after stairwell, breezing through halls, carrying her to an unknown destination.

  Her free hand clawed the fabric of his cloak in a tight bunch. After several moments of transport, she resigned to the situation and relaxed in his arms, forehead tucked into his chest.

  He smelled like copal, autumn leaves, and tobacco.

  “Your chamber.” Sturdy arms entrusted her body to a plush mattress with fluffy blankets.

  Ninkasi pushed herself up, sinking into the fleecy mattress, hands blindly testing the soft surroundings.

  Steady fingers unraveled the knot at the back of her head, whipping the blindfold away.

  Her jaw dropped: she sat in the center of a king-sized mahogany bed. Spiraling bedposts towered over her, supporting an elegantly carved canopy frame, with chiseled images of leaves, flowers, and knots. Silken, cream-colored curtains with gold embroidery clung to each post, tied with a golden rope. She sat on a lavender satin bedspread, tucked in tidy folds over a luxurious heap of pillows.

  “Your bag.” He tossed the knapsack onto the bed beside her.

  Ninkasi snatched the bag and cradled it in her lap, digging her fingers into the worn fabric. It comforted her, gripping something familiar.

  The man turned and skulked toward the door. “It’s Aleister’s dead Auntie Bernadette’s room. I hope you don’t mind.”

  Ninkasi opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out—

  “Your brother is unharmed.”

  She stared into the unchanging fox mask. Her bottom lip quivered.

  Noah. . .

  He exited, locking the door behind him.

  Ninkasi growled, more tears gushing from her eyes, and beat the mattress with a fist. Shaking her head, she emptied the contents of her bag.

  Her wallet! She frantically grabbed the aged and beaten thing, and peered inside. Her cash was intact, her cards and ID present.

  Her sunglasses, her water bottle, a comb, two wrapped tampons—and the silver tin full of seeds she munched for birth control—it was all here.

  Flicking open the tin, she crunched two. She was in that cell for at least a day, and hoped her cycle wasn't wrecked.

  She didn’t have a lover. But somewhere far away, back in her normal life, she was hopeful. The forecast was grim, based upon the constraints of her disastrous home life and busy schedule. But she was always hopeful.

  Her Remote Communications Unit remained. Ninkasi flipped open the device; the screen remained black.

  She held the power button, and her breath: this was her one shot at a call for help.

  The device was dead. Ninkasi frowned and popped open the back panel—the batteries and her data card were missing.

  Damnit. Her keys were missing.

  And they stole her chocolate bar. Bastards.

  She slammed the useless device against the bed and climbed to her feet. Massaging her temples, she paced in a circle.

  How could she get out of here?

  She passed opulent mahogany chairs and ottomans with lavender velvet upholstery, and wandered to the gilded door. She jiggled the crystal knob.

  Locked.

  She sank against the door. At least Noah was safe.

  How did that masked man know Noah was safe? Was he telling the truth? She watched when the man who struck her—the one called Aleister—attacked her brother. She saw Noah lifeless, breathless, on the ground.

  She shook her head. Was her brother okay after that?

  Ninkasi padded through her new cell, marveling at the armoires painted in gold and peacock hues, smelling the fresh flowers springing from millefiori vases, feeling her feet sink into the terrifying, furry throw rug made from a white bear before the fireplace.

  She tilted her head and gawked at the ceiling, painted with scenes of burning corpses, flesh-eating dog beasts, noses and ears on small feet, armed with knives, like dreams during a fever. Light winked through a chandelier dripping with faceted crystals.

  Her reflection frowned at her in a titanic wall mirror, framed in swirling knots of gold: she had greasy hair, bags under her eyes, and her face was puffy from crying.

  She hadn’t eaten since the interrupted meal at home.

  The far end of her room curved in a sweeping bank of iron-framed windows. Ninkasi pressed her hands and nose to the cool glass, peering outside: rolling hills disappeared into a thick forest; a ferocious grey sea crashed against a rocky shore. Picturesque.

  Her heart thudded: there existed no such geography within hundreds of miles of her home. She had a rotten suspicion she was someplace north. . . off-the-mainland-of-Jambu north.

  She gauged her new room was in a tower, maybe eight floors above ground—there was no escape from this ancient and glorious chateau, somewhere in the sprawling countryside, a true castle.

  Her prison.

  Hours passed. How many, Ninkasi had no idea. Pacing through the room, she periodically returned to the window to note the sun’s movement through the sky, and its disappearance behind the chateau.

  She wasn’t sure how long she could tolerate being locked in a room like this before she went crazy.

  Insanity did not appeal to her. She was starting to look the part.

  Perhaps it was inevitable.

  A fist rapped against the door.

  Her heart fluttered, and she froze in mid-pace.

  There came a second knock.

  She folded her arms, summoning her tough voice. “Are you here to let me go?”

  “I brought you some food.” It was the enigmatic voice of the masked man.

  She tiptoed toward the door, and tilted her head, listening.

  The man’s voice was low, and he spoke as if they stood close, as if there were no door between them. “Will you let me in?”

  Ninkasi smelled the unmistakable smell of garlic and white wine sautéed prawns. In her current state, she was ravenous.

  She bit her lip. “Take me home. Get me out of here.”

  “I hear your stomach growling.”

  “I don’t want your
food.” She stormed to the other side of the room, and stood with her back facing the door. “I want you to take me home.”

  “I’m entering.” The door opened, and the masked man poked his head inside. This time he wore a golden ballroom mask, trimmed in purple and green sequins, with a wild mane of blue feathers.

  She saw his mouth, lips small, pressed together, and brooding, one freckle situated above the left corner of his mouth. His skin was smooth, pale, his chin long and angular. Thick and luxuriant auburn hair fell around his shoulders. He dressed in black, wearing a cerulean silk brocade vest, and a smart leather belt that hugged his slender waist, buckle studded with bitsy diamonds. His shoes were black, stippled, pointy.

  He hadn’t lost the stupid gloves. Were they part of his costume?

  His lips betrayed a faint smirk, and he watched her patiently, aware of the scrutiny.

  Ninkasi crossed her arms, narrowing her eyes.

  He carried two plates, triumphant, jewel-encrusted cutlery, and a large crystal bowl full of salad. A scarlet patchwork knapsack dangled from his shoulder.

  The prawns were in the salad. The smell drove her mad. She salivated. She had to eat. Now.

  The man breezed through the room, sitting at an antique table by the window. He set down the bowl of salad, and arranged the plates and cutlery for two.

  Ninkasi sucked in a raging breath. “What, are you going to sit here and eat with me?”

  “Prolonged isolation will damage even the most steadfast psychology.” He opened the bag on his shoulder, procuring two goblets and a bottle of white wine.

  She walked halfway across the room and stopped, throwing her arms into the air. “And being kidnapped by a bunch of lunatics doesn’t do the same thing?!”

  He placed three pomegranates on the table. “Those you may eat later. I picked them for you.”

  The prawns called to her. She wanted more than anything to eat.

  But it disgusted her, the thought of dining with her kidnapper.

  The smell of food made her wild.

  It angered her that she could break so quickly. It was unfair, this manipulation.

  Her sense of reason cautioned she might calm down if she ate. If she calmed down, she could think clearly. Until now, she was alternately hysterical and enraged.

  To escape, she needed a clear head.

  Ninkasi grudgingly shuffled toward the table, hanging her head and taking a seat.

  The man stabbed a wine key into the bottle, and popped the cork with precise, fluid twists of the wrist. He poured an ounce into the chalice closest to Ninkasi, and pushed it toward her.

  She rolled her eyes. “What is this, the only way you can get a date?”

  “No.” He leaned forward, the corner of his lip curling with excitement. “This is unoaked chardonnay.”

  Ninkasi ignored him. She grabbed the salad tongs, forcing a nonplussed, disgusted expression—it was not an utter defeat if she could mask the joy and rapture she felt in heaping the food onto her plate, the rapturous song and dance she wanted to perform at the sight of spinach, pecans, goat cheese, strawberries, and—prawns!

  Prawns, prawns, prawns!

  It was a resplendent salad. Colorful. Life-giving.

  She tried to ignore this ritzy weirdo with his bird-like showgirl mask, and took a bite of food.

  Pinching the stem of her chalice with two fingers, he swirled it beneath his nose, sniffing discerningly. Returning her glass, he gripped the wine bottle by its base and deftly filled her chalice, then his own.

  The food was so delicious she wanted to cry. It was an epiphany. She melted. Everything was so fresh and scrumptious.

  She felt his eyes on her, felt him watching her inner walls of Jericho crumble.

  Ninkasi felt a sudden rush of emotion. This whole ordeal, it was too much—

  She did her best to hide it, to mask it, to conceal whatever tides of insane hysteria she felt, and picked at her salad. Really, she wanted to hold the entire bowl up to her face and eat with her hands.

  Her starving stomach churned: the provision of nourishment provoked an all-encompassing gratitude. Never had she felt so grateful for anyone, for anything.

  Despite the fact she was kidnapped, she felt too broken and weepy to muster an adequate rage. More than anything, she wanted peace, and a meal delivered exactly that.

  She capitulated to the madness, wondering if it was terminal, contagious. “You never told me your name.”

  The man swirled his wine, and poked his nose into the glass, savoring its bouquet. “You never asked.”

  She huffed. Her lip trembled. She didn’t want him to make her say it.

  He took a sip of wine and leaned forward, meeting her at eye level. “Orion.”

  Her lips betrayed her with a smile. “Like the constellation?”

  He served himself a generous scoop of salad. “Do you know the constellations?”

  She shook her head. “Only a couple.” Ninkasi lifted her glass of wine, and swirled it contemplatively. “It’s an ignorance. . . I regret.”

  He stared out the window.

  She noticed a rhinestone sparkle in his ear. “Listen. . . Orion.” She crunched on a prawn, snapping off the tail.

  His eyes followed her movements.

  “If I’m stuck here for a while. . .” Ninkasi took her first swig of wine. It was buttery, like apple blossoms, smooth, crisp, and refreshing. “I want my own bathroom. I want clean clothes, toothpaste, shampoo, and a nice bar of soap. If you can wine and dine your hostages with five-star room service, I don’t think I’m asking too much.”

  “Consider it done.” He knocked back his wine. “We’re in the process of extending your quarters.” He paused. “Are you enjoying the wine?”

  She felt it burning in her cheeks. “It’s tasty.”

  He gestured to the window. “Aleister inherited acres of vineyards here.”

  “Acres of vineyards?” Ninkasi’s eyes widened. “Wait, inherited? That’s how he got his money?”

  Orion nodded.

  “That makes sense.” She gulped her wine. “Must be nice to inherit a dead person’s castle.”

  “It’s a chateau.” Orion poked at his salad. “Chateau Bernadette. Aleister inherited his great uncle’s wealth, a pitiful fraction of his family’s riches.”

  Ninkasi cleared her plate, save the prawn tails, and scooped herself a generous second portion of salad. “How did they get so rich?”

  “Royal blood.” Orion shrugged. “Aleister traces his lineage through the conquerors of Ruta, back into the feudal lords of Sheol. His family’s wealth continued to amass through the ages. They became bankers, realized the wealth in printing money.” He grimaced, finishing his glass of wine. “Huge racket to be made there, by the way.”

  Ninkasi’s lip curled, and she shook her head. “I can understand inherited, historical wealth. But getting rich printing money?” She pecked at her salad, fork tinking against the plate. “There are rules and regulations. There is international oversight, a worldwide gold standard. It’s not like anyone can print money out of thin air—”

  He grinned, sweeping fingers through his hair.

  Ninkasi slammed her glass on the table. “What?”

  “Maybe you’ll be glad we took you out of the house.” He shook his head.

  She glowered at him. “Do you get out much?” The wine burned in her head.

  Orion tapped his fingers on the table. “Aleister’s family made a fortune funding the wars that brought the Empire Daitya to power.”

  She nodded. “Honest living.”

  “The manufacturing of arms, the mining of raw materials. . .” He topped up Ninkasi’s wine, and poured himself another glass. “The ongoing genocide in Ruta. The native populations and their medicine-rich forests are a massive obstacle to future mining operations.”

  Ninkasi inched back into the seat of her chair. “This makes me feel great about staying here.”

  Orion gulped his wine. “Aleister’s great un
cle defected.”

  She lifted an eyebrow.

  “The racket disgusted him. He wanted out.” Orion leaned over the table, pointing at the chateau. “He took what he could and fled here. His penance was to move off the grid, create a self-sustaining community, return to nature and disengage the fucked-up machine of world politics.”

  Ninkasi bit into another prawn. “Then why is Aleister running around, shooting smoke grenades into senators’ homes and stealing their daughters?”

  “Aleister.” Orion took a swig of wine, tilting his head when he swallowed. “Aleister needs. . .” He grabbed the bottle and filled his glass. “An active way to purge the weight of his family’s sins. Peaceful living isn’t enough for him.”

  “I see.” She sipped her wine. “Noble terrorism. What does any of this have to do with me?”

  He returned to his salad. “Aleister wanted your father.”

  “But my father never did anything wrong! He’s not starting wars or committing genocide—” Ninkasi dug her nails into the table.

  “No, but he’s a chess piece.” Orion pointed with his fork. “About to fall into evil hands. Aleister wanted to circumvent that.”

  Exhaling sharply, she clutched her glass of wine, angling her body away from the table.

  Leaning over the table, he avidly watched the worry in her face. “I doubt Aleister would want me to speak of this.”

  Glaring at him, she lowered her voice. “Do you do everything Aleister tells you to do?”

  Orion’s eyes drifted to the side, to the ceiling. He smiled, and drank contentedly from the chalice.

  Ninkasi resumed devouring her salad in silence, and contemplated ripping that maddening mask from his face.

  Then she might feel inclined to talk with him. Then she might feel sane.

  The masquerade was too much; it made her want to scream.

  He continued to study her with impunity, immune to scrutiny himself behind the safety of that ridiculous mask.

  “If you weren’t here right now. . .” Orion spoke with his nose in the glass. “If you could be anywhere in the world. . . Where would you be?”

  Ninkasi rested her head against the wall. The warmth mounted in her cheeks: she was buzzed. Starvation was a swift path to drunkenness. “I would be. . .” She looked out the window, at the sky, and savored another taste of wine. “In a rustic cabin, out in the middle of nowhere. Somewhere I could watch the seasons change and hear the birds sing. Some place with a cozy fireplace. Some place I could grow old in peace, and weave blankets for a living.” She hung her head. “Not that I know the first thing about weaving blankets. But I imagine the feeling of making a living through a craft to be the ultimate satisfaction. I regret getting my degree, it feels like a waste of time.”