But Garran had only rested his fingers on my chin. I opened my eyes and trembled with his touch as he stood in front of me, his chin lifted, his head tilted slightly to one side with his bright blue and yellow-dotted eyes focused on mine. Eyes full of confidence and pride, eyes that were loyal and sympathetic, yet full of energy and the need to accomplish a chivalrous quest—the eyes of a knight.
His body, clad in protective plates of shell like a suit of armor, matched the passion I saw within, but could this being, this Enestian Prince, rescue me like a knight in shining armor? What was it about this strange being with sheets of shell for skin that made me suddenly feel safe on a planet I had never seen before and knew nothing about?
Something about this alien made me smile despite the fact that my body ached and my stomach wrenched with pains of hunger. His movements were sharp and purposeful like that of an athlete’s, but there was a hint of elegance and an air of sophistication in the way he tipped his head and how his shoulders settled gracefully when he took a deep breath.
Why did the feel of his soft fingers make my blood pump noticeably in my throat and send a warm shiver through my body, this thing with hard hands but with a warm shell? His touch was innocent, yet sensuous, an extension of his passion, and I marveled at how the grazing of his fingertips upon me could ignite desire.
Was he experiencing this, too? Were the parting of his lips and the deep, eye-closing breaths a sign that he hoped our innocent exploration of shell and skin was a precursor of what might happen between us if we were truly alone?
“Am I what you expected?” he asked. He smiled and the shell plates on his cheeks and below his eyes lifted.
A loud sigh, followed by a trail of abrupt Enestian words barred my answer. The female’s fuzzy figure appeared on the other side of the wall. Garran glanced over his shoulder. His forehead crumpled, the plates coming together as his eyes tightened. He shouted something at the female, his tone harsh, and his words abrupt. She spoke in return, saying something with clicks and sharp, foreign words, and Garran responded by shaking his head. She stepped away and disappeared.
“Who is that?” I asked when she was gone.
“Lestra Timuary.”
“Lestra,” I said, but without shelled lips, there was no way I could pronounce it correctly by giving it a sort of clicking tone.
“She is a palace maid, my servant, and she is also Slaine’s sister.” He slid his finger from my chin to my throat and then my collarbone.
“What did she say? It’s obvious she’s upset about something.”
“She’s just concerned for my safety, but I’ve assured her that you’ve undergone the proper period of quarantine, so there’s no need for her to be worried.”
Lestra was afraid of catching a disease from me? I was the one who should have been afraid, yet those strange but oddly familiar aliens, with their impeccably unblemished shells, led me to believe they couldn’t possibly harbor any type of illness or disease, especially the prince.
He set his jaw and inhaled. “And she told me that what I’m doing is not appropriate. Touching a female,” he said, his words so breathy and seductive, the fire inside me danced. “Having your body so close to mine when we aren’t betrothed or married is considered scandalous for a prince, a blemish to my reputation if anyone was to find out.”
“Only for a prince or for others, too?”
“Intimacy before marriage is not against the law. It’s based upon each Enestian’s personal beliefs, just as it is for humans. But it’s different for the royals, since I won’t meet my bride until my wedding day.”
I sighed and watched the shell sections under Garran’s shirt overlap and slide with each breath while I tried to shed the thought of my so-far-happy and productive life ending before I graduated from college. He gazed up at the ceiling like he was thinking of the right words, and I looked up at him from under his chin, studying the gentle curves of his nose and the two small holes—nostrils—at its base. My nose was big compared to all the Enestian noses I had seen so far—not that I’d seen a lot.
Our eyes met once again as he lowered his chin, eyes so alien with their unique coloring. My hand, still poised on his forearm, shook along with my lower lip when I took a deep breath.
He inhaled and leveled his shoulders against the wall, his body beneath his green tunic and black pants smooth with the occasional rise and fall from the place where muscle would protrude on a human. I imagined myself slipping my hand under his shirt and feeling skin instead of shell.
“This is beautiful,” I said and grazed my hand over his shirt, tracing one of its designs in gold thread, my finger making a spiral before settling my palm against his shoulder. His shell plates stiffened under my hand, making a muffled rubbing sound.
Garran took one of my hands into both of his, giving it a sweet squeeze, and my swirling insides exploded in a bath of pleasant heat. Instead of being jointed and fitted with plates of various sizes, the inside of his hand was one continuous sheet of soft shell that flexed when he moved. His lips and much of his face consisted of the same malleable shell, and when he wasn’t talking or smiling, his face was smooth and human-like.
He ran his index finger along the top of my hand, following the length of bone rising up from my skin. “Those are bones,” I said.
“We have bones, too. We just can’t feel them through our shell. In fact, our internal structures are supported by a skeletal system almost identical to yours.”
“Then you are more human than you think.” I smiled.
“Or you are more Enestian than you think,” he teased back.
“Are all of your body parts covered in shell?” I asked innocently before I realized it could be taken the wrong way. Though now that I thought about it, I was curious about that, too. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to get too personal. I’m just so lost here. I don’t know what I’m saying half the time.”
Garran’s chest plates rose, and the side of his body met mine when he took a big breath. “You don’t feel lost now, do you?”
“No, not when you’re here.”
He lifted my hand to his face, and I touched his lips, pressing lightly. He made a soft clicking sound as I pulled away. His lips were softer than they looked. Like the tips of his fingers and the insides of his hands, the shell of his lips was well defined and leathery tight like a piece of canvas stretched upon a frame.
His eyes burned into mine, and as alien as he was, I still felt connected to him.
“You smell good.”
“It’s jessom moss oil. Jessom moss grows all over our planet. It’s treasured for its dark green color and unusual but pleasant fragrance. The royal wardrobe is indicative of jessom’s color,” he said softly and close enough for his lips to nearly brush my cheek.
A pleasant shiver radiated through my chest until the enormity of my situation hit me. Seeing Garran, an alien from three galaxies away from Earth, standing inches away, exuding a strange, although beautiful, scent cemented the reality of my abduction and captivity, and my head whirled and knees buckled.
He caught me under the arms, his biceps hard against my ribs, and lowered me into a sitting position before joining me on the cold stone.
“Are you okay?” The shell sections above the bridge of Garran’s nose came together.
“Yeah, I’m okay.”
“I didn’t hurt you, did I?” he asked, flexing his hands.
“No, not at all.” His body heavy against mine felt pleasant. “I’m fine now. I just got a little lightheaded for a minute. I haven’t eaten much since I’ve been here. Just a bite of one of those.”
“Those are nutritional food replacements,” said Garran, noting the tray with the food blocks on the floor next to me.
“They don’t taste very good.”
“No, they don’t.” He laughed. “But you need to eat.” He picked up the brown cube. “If I had to pick a favorite, this would be it.”
“What is it? Some kind of meat?”
; “Yes, kertrish. It’s been processed, blended with dietary supplements.”
“Kertrish,” I tried to repeat and completely missed the clicking sound after the first syllable.
“A small, thick-shelled animal, raised for Enestian consumption. Kertrish do not make good pets. Their plates are rough and pocked, and their bite can crack shell.” I imagined a wolverine with the thick, leathery hide of an armadillo. “Try it,” he said.
He brought the brown block to my lips and held it under my nose. I took a whiff. Its smell made my mouth water, but, remembering how the yellow block had tasted, I was still leery.
Garran laughed. “Its taste will please you. I promise.” He brought the cube to his mouth and took a small bite. He chewed and swallowed and as the plates along this throat rippled, the smell of cooked kertrish, something meat-like but gamey, became thick in my cell.
“Okay, I’ll at least try it.” I took the cube, held it delicately to my lips, opened my mouth, and let my teeth sink through the buttery-like substance. There was no crunch, no need to chew twenty times before swallowing. It melted against my tongue and at the back of my throat, its taste true to its smell. My empty stomach appreciated it more than my taste buds did.
“Not bad, I guess,” I said after swallowing. “It’s better than that one.” I pointed to the yellow cube.
“Yes, that one’s made from tartemlow and bestripe root. Its flavor is questionable even among Enestians, but it contains nutrients vital to shell health.
“Well, that counts me out,” I said and ate what was left of the brown cube slowly, not desperately and frantically like my gnawing stomach wanted me to. The green cube came next. It tasted like vegetables, but its slightly sweet flavor was a bit off-putting.
“Bleglosh,” said Garran. And he described how its thick stocks are harvested and boiled.
“Do you feel better?” he asked when I finished the green cube.
“Yeah, I do.” The burning in my stomach ceased, and for the first time since my abduction, all my strength had returned to my limbs. “So, did you figure out a way to free me and take me home?” I set my hand on the prince’s forearm, expecting it to be cold, but instead it was warm, and I dared to give it a gentle squeeze.
“No, but I will do everything in my power to help return you to your planet if possible,” said Garran without hesitating.
I believed him.
Chapter Sixteen
Garran
The shell plates around my mouth locked into a smile as I ran my fingers once again down the side of the human girl’s face. America shuddered under her blanket.
“Are you cold?”
“No,” she said, and leaned close enough for me to feel her warm breath against my shell.
“Are you afraid?”
“Afraid yes. Not of you, but of what’s going to happen if you can’t get me back to Earth.” The skin above America’s eyes wrinkled like a dried filbian plumb.
“I don’t want you to be afraid.” My fingers slid below her chin, and I felt the bone beneath her skin. My body boiled pleasantly beneath my shell, starting below and coiling upward through my chest.
“Why me? Why did your father pick me?”
“You were—what’s the saying—in the wrong place at the right time. Once a planet is selected, the precise location is determined by many factors, such as how easily one of our ships can slip into that planet’s atmosphere undetected. Once our research vessel has breached a country’s air-defense systems, a healthy native being is taken quickly. We want to spend the least amount of time as possible in a foreign orbit, especially one that contains underdeveloped planets. Not because we fear the planet’s combined armed forces but because we don’t want them to know we exist. Enestians are the most powerful beings in the Millennius, and to stay that way, we need to keep other aliens ignorant of our technology.”
Why had I said that? I sounded as arrogant and ethnocentric as my father.
“And when they’re done with them, they always kill them, like your father plans to do to me?”
“Yes.” Somewhere on Trispia, a family was missing one of its members. “But I’m not going to let anyone hurt you,” I told her. But deep in my shell, I knew she would die, too, if I couldn’t find a way to stop it.
America lifted my hand away from her face and held my fingers. When our eyes met, I shivered on the inside like a piece of ice had been wedged beneath my shell.
“I thought you would be harder.” She smiled.
“Our shell is hard, but in certain places, like the inside of our hands and the bottom of our feet, the shell remains thick but flexible.”
“It feels leathery,” she said as she pressed my palm. I knew the word. Leather was earthling animal skin, but I couldn’t imagine what it felt like until now.
“You aren’t as mushy as I thought you’d be. Your skin is soft but firm.”
“Thanks, I guess.” She laughed, shook her head, and the stuff called hair shifted across her forehead. I slowly reached forward and touched it.
Her hair was soft and billowy between my fingers, and as I leaned closer, I caught the scent of husstle blossoms and jintz bark. She obviously found the personal hygiene station and was keeping herself clean, and now her sweet scent combined with her humanly beauty made me wonder what it would be like to kiss her lips.
“Sir Lancelot,” she whispered, still holding my fingers. With her other hand, she bent each of my fingers forward, curling them into my palm and then straightening them, watching the shell plates slide and buckle, and each time her fingers slid up and then down mine, I imagined how it would feel if she were doing the same to my lower plate.
“Sir Lancelot?” I struggled to focus on what she’d said.
“One of King Arthur’s knights. Your shell is like a suit of armor, the way it’s divided up into plates that overlap at the joints when you bend.”
“Ah, yes, I have read your Arthurian legends.”
“You have?” America straightened her back. “So have I—all of them. Including A Connecticut Yankee in King Author’s Court.”
“Yes, I’ve also read the works of Mark Twain,” I said.
Her blanket slipped a little, and as she tucked it under her arms, I noticed her breasts under the blanket were large—at least by Enestian standards—and wondered if they were soft but firm like her cheeks. My blood pulsed hard beneath my shell as she continued to explore the workings of my hand.
“Like I said, I’ve read much of your literature. A Knight of the Round Table, a table, round with no head, suggesting that everyone who sat there shared equal status with the king.”
She stroked my palm and lightly squeezed my shell at the wrist. “But unfortunately in this kingdom, my father sits at the head of the table, enjoying his power over the Millennius,” I said, lifting her hand in mine to inspect the soft lines engrained on her skin at the joints and brush my fingertip across the flat, hard pieces of red shell at the tips of her fingers.
“Fingernails,” she said. “They protect the top of our fingers, and I’ve painted mine for decoration.”
“Our shells are also for our protection, and female Enestians dust their shell with powder to make them sparkle. It’s also for decoration.”
“But your shell is a lot thicker and stronger than a human fingernail. Our fingernails are made from keratin, the same thing our hair is made from.” America stroked her hair with her free hand. “What is your shell made from, bone?”
“Yes, that would be a good translation.”
“Human bones can break.”
“Yes, and I’ve read humans can survive these breaks.” The sound of the Trispian’s shell cracking infused with my thoughts, making it momentarily difficult for me to concentrate on America’s words, and I shuddered under my shell.
“Yeah, we can, but there are certain breaks humans sometimes don’t survive, like if we break our spine, or neck, or fracture our skull. But most bones can be reset and healed,” she said, meeting my hand p
alm to palm and pressing lightly. “What about your shell? Have you ever cracked it?”
“Our bones do not heal, so it’s best that we never crack our shells or do anything to weaken them. We can’t live without our shells.” A shrill howl pierced my mind with the continued memory of the suffering Trispian. “From a very young age, we’re taught to respect one’s shell, treat it with dignity, and never do anything that would jeopardize the integrity of it. A scratch can lead to an undetectable hairline crack. A hairline crack can lead to a larger, noticeable breach.”
“You’ll die without a shell?” The skin around her eyes creased at the corners.
“Yes.”
“Then what happens if it does crack?”
“A team of doctors fuse the shell back together, using an enamel patch, a temporary and dangerous fix. It is done here at this lab. Last year, one of the researchers fractured a face plate when his shuttle malfunctioned and crashed into a building. If you look closely, you can see a horizontal line across his cheek that’s slightly lighter than the rest of his face, right here,” I said, running my finger lightly across the thickest part of America’s cheek and watching her skin gently sink with the pressure. “But one’s shell is never the same, even after a good repair. It is more likely to break again, and if a section of shell shatters into pieces too small to put together, a plate of artificial shell has to be used instead.”
“So what’s underneath your shell?” she asked warily.
Under my shell? What kind of question was that? I never thought about what was under my shell before. Why would I? There was nothing under our shells; our organs were inside our shells.
“Not under our shells—inside our shells,” I responded. “Like humans, Enestian interiors contain a distinct set of systems: circulatory, respiratory, digestive, skeletal, muscular, nervous, and many more, although I don’t know all the English translations.”
“But what is under the shell if a piece comes off?” she persisted.
“The systems I just listed. They would be exposed. Our shell defines our shape. It keeps our systems of organs intact. If I lost a shell plate right now, my exposed interior would spill out onto the floor of this cell. That’s why a minor crack is so dangerous. Careless Enestians kill themselves every year by taking chances and doing something dangerous that cracks their shells.”
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