by S. A. Ravel
“Since the hall is floating in the air, I don’t know how I’d sneak up on guests even if I wanted them.”
Luqmun stopped and stepped to the side to avoid Abella bumping into him, turning to face her. “There will be, of course, an aerial transport for you to utilize.” The chill of his voice matched the gray of the impending storm.
“That sounds reasonable enough.” She held up a hand, forestalling him, some devil of defiance fueling her interruption. “Yes, I know. I serve—reasonableness is irrelevant.”
For a moment, she sensed an undercurrent of danger, but held her ground. She wasn’t going to be a doormat, and she wouldn’t allow him to speak to her with such callous disregard for basic courtesy. But she was getting the sense Vicelord Luqmun had no sense of humor.
“Then welcome to Ailaut,” he said, voice milder, eyes piercing. “You’ll find your quarters on the lowest floor of the Skyhall. Your predecessor should have left access to the instructions you require there.”
He showed her to the small garage that housed her transport, programmed the locks to her thumbprint, and left after ascertaining her handbook contained the proper tutorials. The ass. He expected her to learn how to operate foreign machinery from a YouTube vid. She really didn’t like that man.
Abella maneuvered the transport into the air, grimly grasping the courtesy handhold. It was a simple upright dual-passenger unit with a storage compartment in the back. Doors slid to the side to allow her to enter, then sealed, a safety restraint automatically adjusting to her height and girth. She activated voice control, ordering the machine to take her to the home base, and it lifted off. She clutched her restraint. Her parents had been wealthy. She’d ridden in aerial transports before, but never this high—there were strict limits at home. Very few people had the proper licenses to clear more than a story.
The transport approached the tower at a brisk speed. Abella clenched her teeth as it seemed she would crash right into an opaque wall, but a panel slid away, revealing an inner courtyard paved in shiny white and blue stones. The transport set down smoothly and thanked Abella for a pleasant trip.
She snorted, hands trembling as she exited, somehow thinking it backwards for the conveyance to thank her. The compartment opened automatically and she retrieved her two bags. Her other belongings should be en route on a delivery transport. Looking around, Abella exhaled.
In the center of the circular courtyard sat a fountain of pearly gray stone, a gentle trickle of water winding around the abstract statue in the center. Wild flowers were hedged in only by a seemingly haphazard stone path. She looked up, suddenly realizing the source of the natural light was because there was no roof.
It made sense. A floating tower was odd enough… especially when the Aikalah were cagey on the explanation of the technology involved. But to have floating grounds and gardens? Impossible. So, the architect had placed the outdoors inside.
She crossed the courtyard to the outdoor hallway and entered the nearest door, marked simply by an edging of topaz metal in the rectangular shape that approximated a traditional entrance. It slid as she approached, and she paused at a directory, asking for the path to her quarters. She studied the map that lit up on the flat-screen panel, and then walked a half circle, occasionally glancing at the view of the gardens through the thick, clear walls, until she came to a door that lit up with her name.
How… homey.
Entering her room, she exhaled, again pleased, struck by the loveliness of the area. Large, with high ceilings, it was easily the size of a small apartment, with clearly cordoned off sections defined by furniture sets. In one corner, a high platform bed wide enough to fit three or four people, covered with a pale blue duvet. More topaz strips on the wall next to it, likely indicating hidden side tables and drawers. The floors were covered in more tiles from outside, but polished; they were perfectly smooth underfoot, without being slippery. Another subtle feat of technology. In another corner was a couch and two chairs with side tables.
She also saw a white desk unit, quaint and charming, not a wall unit but separated furniture. Abella set her bags on the floor and made her way to the side of the room where an entire wall was covered in antique window drapes. She pushed aside the curtains, swaths of silky fabric in white, finding a rod and walking the entire length of the wall. Natural light flooded in and she had an entire view of the turbulent sea.
Pressing a hand against the window, she jumped when a small digital panel appeared in the glass. She studied the options, then set it to thirty percent open. And… pores appeared. There was no other word for it. Instead of a panel sliding away—which wouldn’t make sense as she had no balcony—actual tiny holes appeared in the wall, letting in a controlled amount of breeze.
“Full open,” she said, and the briny sea air flooded in, invigorating, along with a fine layer of sea mist.
Abella stood for a few minutes, then sighed. She needed to explore, find the areas she had access to, and study her duty sheet again. She knew she oversaw opening the tower and getting it ready for habitation as well as potential guests the Archan would entertain when he… returned.
She activated the house system and accessed the documents left by her predecessor. The former housekeeper, who hadn’t signed the note, estimated that it would take a staff of ten nearly one week to get the Archan’s residence in shape. Ten people would have to work around the clock to get it in shape before the Archan returned.
She left her room, skimming the inventory and household map, and decided the first order of business was to purchase basic supplies. Then after a day or two of exploring, she could determine what special projects needed completion. With a sense of purpose and adventure, she grabbed her device and slipped back into the transport, heading toward the village.
3
Abella chose a coffeehouse—or what passed for coffee on Ailaut. They did serve the beverage, mostly at the insistence of Earth off-worlders, but it wasn’t the be all end all. Humans born on Ailaut preferred steeped herbal beverages flavored with fruits. Tea, basically.
She entered the village establishment just ahead of the first few drops of rain, wind lashing her hair. Damnit. She’d run a thermal brush through it before leaving, smoothing out the glossy dark strands kinked up from the dampness in the air. Shouldn’t have bothered.
Eyes followed her as she approached the front register. It looked like a coffeehouse, anyway. High counters lining the windows. Plenty of small two-seater tables, though they seemed to favor whites and pale, homey Beachwood. She caught the glimpse of a patio deck, but the doors were closed. Glancing around, she eyed an old-fashioned community corkboard with actual paper flyers.
“Hi,” she said when it was her turn. “I’ll have a chai, medium please.”
Abella took her order to one of the high counters near the window so she could watch traffic and plan her next moves. Oddly enough, she didn’t have long to wait.
A polite cough at her shoulder. Abella glanced up from her device and smiled. “Can I help you?”
A woman of medium height watched Abella with keen gray eyes. She wore a sleeveless top with a seashell motif and khaki cropped pants. No makeup, which told Abella she was either too old to care, married, or not a tourist.
“I’m Thalia.” She held out a hand. “Head of the visitor center on island Caraneid.” She smiled dryly. “The coffee shop is the visitor center.”
“Oh!” Abella shook her hand. “Nice to meet you.”
“I saw you with the Vicelord. Are you the new liaison?”
Her voice was casual—a little too casual paired with the intensity of her stare.
“Yes,” Abella replied. “I came into town to get the lay of the land, find the local jobs board.”
A pause. “You’ll be wanting staff, then?”
“I’m authorized for skeleton staff until the Archan returns.”
Thalia’s gaze turned toward the outside and droplets of water plinked against the glass. “It won’t be long now.”
Abella frowned. What did the woman mean by that?
“I’ll send some people your way, hmm? They’ll be out despite the storm—because of the storm.”
She felt like she’d missed some important context, but knew the primer didn’t cover it. Abella turned so her back faced the street, and stared through the shop to the patio. There was an unobstructed view of the beach beyond, waves lashing the shore. What did the locals know about the weather that an off-worlder wouldn’t?
The cafe filled with patrons. The laid-back ambiance of just a few minutes ago morphed into a new bustle, with a subdued sense of waiting. Muted chatter drowned out the background music and the espresso machines whirled constantly.
And a steady stream of islanders approached Abella. After the fifth impromptu interview, she realized she’d have her staff before she finished her drink.
She smiled at a young mother balancing a toddler on one hip—while she finagled Abella for a job since stay-at-home moms knew how to clean everything—when she felt it.
‘It’ wasn’t the right word. The… presence… that passed over the island shivered through her mind even as a cloud roared its defiance in thunder and lightning. The crack rattled the bells of the cafe as the door slid open to admit a rush of soaked tourists.
She wanted to hide from it. Her muscles tensed, teeth clenching with the atavistic fear of any small, hunted creature when faced with a predator so much more… vast. Was this how ants felt, crossing the street? For a split second that felt like eternity, the presence turned its attention to her. Her mind was seized, judged, body held immobile until tears of terror pricked her eyes, followed rapidly by a surge of rage, her inner claws swiping to go away. No one had the right to judge her, to make her feel afraid.
Stay out of my head!
It faded, turning away even as a bit of sun peeked through the storm. Abella blinked several times, then glanced at the young mom standing next to her. And stilled.
The same expression, half fear, half wonder. And no small amount of recognition.
“What was that?” Abella asked, having the courage since she obviously wasn’t crazy.
The woman smiled. “The first time you feel him… I was a little girl the last time he rose from Sleep.” The toddler cried and the woman turned her attention to soothing the baby.
And some instinct kicked in. “The Archan isn’t away on a trip, is he?” Abella asked, not caring if she looked ignorant—the one who was supposed to be in charge.
Thalia approached. “No, no trip. Best get your staff together, he’ll want things to be just so when he’s ready to put feet to ground. So to speak.”
A young man ran into the shop, shirt plastered to his chest, hair dripping. “Thalia! Come quick, he’s landing at the dock.”
Thalia’s spine snapped stiff. “It’s too soon. He’ll—” she cut herself off, turning to Abella. “Come with me. You’ll have to help.”
“What’s wrong?”
The woman grabbed her arm, hustling Abella into the rain. “Leave your things; no one here will steal from the Archan’s staff. You aren’t afraid of a bit of water, are you?”
The bit of water pelted her instantly. Thunder rumbled overhead. “My hair isn’t really made for wet.”
“Bless you, child. See Madam Despre- the hairdresser- after, put it on the Skyhall’s tab.”
Thalia’s forced cheer and hurried pace disturbed Abella. Something was happening and it wasn’t good. And the woman expected Abella to do something about it. About him.
The mind, that for an instant, had almost crushed her own. Abella didn’t understand how she knew it was the Archan—but she knew.
Abella couldn’t see the dock clearly from the center of the village. People ran to get out of the rain, the fear on their faces from more than bad weather. She glanced at the shore and her heart stuttered. The surface of the ocean tossed and swirled as it coalesced into a massive wave headed for the beach.
“Oh, my God.”
“No,” Thalia said. “We do not worship them as Gods.”
What? Her mind stuttered. “We need to get indoors, get to higher ground. Everybody, get to higher ground!”
There wasn’t any high ground to go to on the island, but the villagers ran anyway. That much water could only mean death for anyone who stayed. They couldn’t out climb it; their only hope was to outrun it. If that was any hope at all. On a tiny island.
Thalia yanked her arm. “You have to stay calm,” the older woman said, voice steely.
Thalia dragged her toward the tsunami. A few people watched them, sharp nods here and there.
“What are we doing?” Abella asked, hating the tremble in her voice. Trying not to panic. “What—”
“He rises.” Thalia stared at the approaching wave, growing bigger and bigger, with no fear. “We will be here to greet him, and give him calm minds.”
Poseidon emerged from the wave. At first, all she saw were the wings, shimmering as if coated with the dust of a million pearls, the span of each wing one and a half men long. Atavistic fear crawled up her spine and for a moment, she wanted to cower on her knees. He shot into the air, going so high he became a speck and then the speck turned, wrapped its wings around itself, and dove.
She thought he would drive himself into the beach, a madman intent on some form of crazy Aikalah suicide. But at the last moment, the wings unfurled and he skimmed over their heads. The force of the wind knocked them off their feet, but in the wake of his passing, she sensed… joy. The joy of flight. Emotion flooded her mind, a fierce exultation as he renewed his acquaintance with the sky after a long sleep deep in the waters.
Abella gasped, clutching her head as his images filled her brain. Thoughts and emotions and the knowledge of eons, stretching back thousands of years. To him, the deep of the waters was a temporary reprieve, one he yearned to embrace. But the yearning was weakness—his Skyhall was under threat and he must defend it.
And then the mind was gone, as if he’d never been aware of sharing himself with her in the first place. She wanted to weep. The pain was immense, but for a moment, she’d been so full. She craved the connection again, clamored for the insanity of it, the life of it. She turned, eyes searching the sky for him, arms outstretched in involuntary seeking.
Poseidon crashed to shore, white sands swirling at his bare feet, brilliant rainbow wings flared around him for balance. Not that he needed it—the descent had been flawless. Like watching a living rocket. Except this rocket stalked toward her, citrine eyes glowing with power, fixed on her face. Hair a skein of impossibly tangled waves dripping with seawater around his face and plastered to golden shoulders hard with the kind of muscle only centuries of war and flight could attain.
Abella’s breath caught, eyes glued on the wings. Her fingers itched, mind irreverently wondering how she could quilt that tri-colored pattern that began at the tips of his feathers into her work in progress. Deepest blue like the depths of waters unpenetrated by the sun, subtly merging into sapphire—but sapphires were so poor a comparison. As her eyes followed the curve of color to his wingtips, an impression of waves on a summer day touched with hints of green and finally an eye-watering turquoise—the brightest blue she’d ever seen on anything living before gently softening into pure white.
An angel from the depths of the sea, his wings tattooed by the colors of his domain.
She’d never recalled when she’d seen such perfect male beauty, and her heart sank. This was the Archan? Her employer? How was she supposed to talk about household accounts and payroll and supply budgets with… him?
The plebian thoughts sheltered her mind from some of the shock of his approach. Abella realized that she could still feel the presence in her mind. Faint, but as he came closer, she knew it was there. No—he was there.
“Are you mine?” he asked.
His voice was rough from disuse, a low masculine sound scraping against her eardrums like sandpaper on skin. Sandpaper and plush fur and warm honey driz
zled on… she snapped her mind away from her thoughts, cheeks burning.
She couldn’t answer, needed time to respond. His eyes sharpened, eyes flaring, as if her resistance angered him.
“Are you mine?”
Her knees collapsed.
4
He caught her.
It was so cliché. Even as wings cocooned her in blessed warmth and the strength of his arms kept her upright, the back of her mind scoffed at the melodrama of it. But his mind… overwhelmed her. The power of his voice, the anger that washed through her. And more than anger was the pain and loneliness she knew all too well. Abella opened her mouth to speak, but words failed against the jumble of sensory information.
She looked up into his face, his eyes brilliant, narrowed, an arrow of thought invading her mind in a quick push. He was too strong; he would break her, shatter her into—
“No! Stop!” she cried, the pressure between her temples increasing with the weight of him seeking.
“Ease,” he said, and kissed her.
Abella clung to his arms, her hands grasping at slick, strong shoulders. With his kiss came a flood of soothing coolness, a balm to the heat invading her brain, as if he attempted to heal the damage he’d nearly caused. The kiss… even when she realized it was simply for him to breathe his power into her body, she couldn’t help but respond. He was beautiful, and strong, and holding her as if she was a long-lost love…
And on the heels of that thought, his body shifted, the angle of the kiss deepening, morphing into unexpected sensual demand as if he became aware she was female, in his arms, and willing to let him do whatever he pleased with her. His hands tightened on her waist, his body hardening against hers—
He released Abella and stepped back. As the waters around the island calmed and receded, the raging mind followed suit, leaving her feeling shaken and alone and aching. A stern, searching expression on his face as he scrutinized her. She wrapped her arms around herself, trying to contain a shudder. Trying to calm her body down, to tamp the emotions he aroused so easily, though they were beyond strangers—they were completely different species, a gulf of power separating them.