Cassiel Winters 1: Sky's End

by Lesley Young

  I slept through Or’ic’s test, but apparently he performed stellar. I listen to the Kirs talk about his success as they clean up. I’m glad for him, sort of. They busy themselves. Dressing. Preening. Soon it dawns on me: the breeding rites.

  Ugh.

  That’s it, I will fake illness so that they won’t make me go with them, in case they plan to. They wouldn’t, would they? The thought of this is beyond awful. Really? I mean, I’m curious. I want to know how it goes down, but not if I have to witness it. Nope. Definitely not. Maybe, just maybe, they’ll send me back to the ship! And while they’re getting laid at this Chit’t’ton, or whatever they keep calling it, I’ll attempt my escape. What better time?

  Or’ic’s ship will be half empty. And, wonders! ESE is at Taxata! You just have to get there.

  The truth is I may not have to fake illness. Dread knots my gut. When I sense they’re almost ready to go, I sit up suddenly.

  “I don’t feel well.” I glance at Pers’eus, the kind one.

  “Oh, no. You are not ruining this for us,” he snarls, surprising me.

  “We’ve waited 30 years for this kind of class of female!” whines Onegin to Or’ic.

  “You don’t seriously expect me to go with you,” I snap. “Because I won’t!”

  I glance over at Or’ic before I can help myself. Since my face’s an open book, I’m pretty sure he just read an array of entirely inexplicable emotions, including hurt, betrayal, and jealousy. I check myself, but it’s too late.

  He appears to absorb this, and does his usual thing, brood.

  I bolt to the privy, and wash up in the stand-up bath. My outrage’s mounting. I plan a whole speech about how inappropriate it would be for me to be present at this thing, and mull over how can I explain this to them so they’ll understand when I emerge and, my mercy, the others have left!

  Only Or’ic and a guard of five remain. Wow. Or’ic’s presence is riveting. His outfit is like skin, showing off every slope, every ridge. He’s fresh-shaven all over and smells deliciously musky even over here.

  “These Kirs, 5 through 10, would escort you back.”

  Yes!

  A surge of incredible relief grounds me, and I wonder if he observes this because he nods. My relief’s quickly replaced by another knot as I watch him turn to leave—to go off and bed one of those Thell’eon beauties.

  But, no, he pauses, rotates slightly, and glances at me.

  I hold my breath.

  We share a look but, frankly, I have no idea what it means.

  Then he leaves and I watch him round the corner, feeling strung out.

  I can’t believe he’s going through with this. Then again, why wouldn’t he?

  How about because he felt you up last night? That seems like a pretty good reason!

  But I have to remember, he’s not human.

  He’s ignorant to the emotional ramifications, at least between humans, of going from one woman to the next.

  Right?

  Right. Then it hits me. That’s what bothers me. That he doesn’t feel any of our laws of attraction.

  But wait, you would only feel this way if you had some attachment to what happened. And you don’t. So get a grip!

  And who cares because TONIGHT IS THE NIGHT! While they’re smushing, you’ll be rescuing Lor and on your way to freedom.

  Who cares about them?

  I focus on this kind of positive thinking the whole trip back to Or’ic’s ship. The actual return takes longer than I expect and I fret all the way there that their katantzing will be over soon (they’ve got to be quick draws, right?) and I’ll miss my chance to escape.

  Eventually we arrive. Once the guard ushers me into my old space (wow, it feels way too comfortable) I inform them boldly that they should wait outside.

  The pack honcho, a good-looking, fair-skinned giant, appears taken aback.

  “I’m your sift,” I order, channeling Aelita. “You will stand outside.”

  He takes measure of me with a glance from head to toe. Whatever he perceives must convince him, because he motions for the others to leave as well. One of them lingers for a second. Before he leaves, he smiles; not a flirty smile, but a knowing one.

  What he knows exactly, I don’t.

  Once they are outside the entrance and I make sure they aren’t looking in, I bend over, pull out my care case, grab my blow dart arsenal, and head into the privy. Before we left for the Candidacy, I spent two nights snapping 24 tiny needles out of the three long needles contained in the sewing device with a great deal of elbow grease. No easy feat, even if patience were one of my strengths.

  I load a dart and practice, quickly. Hmm. Appears that I don’t need to aim higher than my target because my darts are bitty. The key’s holding the blowgun steady, and right now I’m vibrating with nervous energy. But it does appear that because the makeshift blowgun’s short, I have to blow hard. I step outside the privy to verify the necessary target distance twice, making sure no one’s watching, and figure my maximum dart range is 30 feet. Maybe 25 to be safe.

  After I’m satisfied with my ability, such as it is, I step back into the privy and concentrate on coating the darts in the drug from the endospray. Of course I have no idea how much is enough, so I cover them twice. Then I wrap them in a scrap of cloth covered in the drug and place them in a tiny pouch I sewed at the waist of my shirt one night in the privy. I load one in the blowgun.

  There’s one big problem I’ve been ignoring. How in the universe can I fire on one of my guards and load four more before the others reach me? I exhale angrily as I tuck the blowgun into the back of my pants.

  I’ll have to distract them, but how? My feminine wile?

  I step out of the privy and bend back over my care case, wondering if there’s anything else I need or should take with me.

  Quit stalling! I’m so anxious. I just need to calm down.

  Yes, get their attention, maybe by undressing.

  I stand up and spin around, thinking one of the guards is making this easy for me.

  OR’IC!

  He’s standing in the partition from his room watching me.

  Boom. Boom. Boom. Oh, that’s my heart.

  “You scared me!” I accuse. Act casual!

  He’s looking at me strangely and for a second I think I’m done for. Did he see the blowgun in the back of my pants?

  “What, what are you doing here?” I glance behind me. The five guards are gone. Uh, maybe this is a good thing. My obstacle’s now down to one. “I thought you were getting your booty,” I add, glancing back at him, surprised at the tone in my voice.

  His eyes undress me, starting from the top down.

  “I am.” He smiles confidently.

  My eyelids spring wide open.

  He enters the room, reminding of the first night he ventured into this space with similar intentions, like he owned everything in it. I back up into the downcore.

  “Whoa!” I put my hand out. “I’m not your prize. Back off. Besides,” I add, scrambling, “don’t women get to choose? Because, I don’t, choose you.”

  “That is Thell’eon custom. You would never choose to live a Thell’eon life. No?” He tilts his head to the side, like he does when he knows he’s right.

  I don’t bother answering, too upset to think straight. On a positive note, he has stopped moving toward me. He’s standing, poised to pounce, a few arm’s lengths away.

  “A human woman would want to breed with one man, for her lifetime. She would want a mate.”

  What’s he talking about?

  His words from that first night echo, about my not having a mate, come back to me.

  His eyes are fixed on me. “I would be your mate.”

  Those words must be a magic code, becau
se something unlocks in me. Am I pleased by the offer?

  “Oh, you would, would you?” I scoff, ignoring the anticipation coursing through me.

  Remember, he’s totally ruining your escape plan. You need to get rid of him, quick.

  “Yes. To make my sift happy, I would do this,” he says.

  “What?” I fake laugh, masking a weird sensation, bordering on hurt feelings, that burns in my gut.

  Surprised, I hear myself say, “Before you make this great sacrifice, how about you, oh, I don’t know, get real! You don’t even remotely comprehend how a human relationship works. It’s based on concepts you’re incapable of sharing, well, like, mutual respect, affection, trust. You can’t just fake those things you know.”

  “Why do you assume I would have to?”

  I’m about to answer when I realize he’s got me there so instead I shout, “Quit looking at me like that!”

  “Before all else, I’m a man, Cassiel.” He takes a step closer, stalking me. “Our culture has suppressed those instincts for the sake of social cohesion and species propagation. But for you, I would learn to experience them again.”

  Escape. Escape. Escape.

  “But what about trust?” I hear myself ask.

  “What about trust?”

  “You said you don’t believe in it. But it’s essential in any successful human relationship.”

  He doesn’t answer right away.

  “I do not believe you believe in trust either, Cassiel.”

  I struggle to swallow. I want to protest, to say he doesn’t know what he’s talking about, but he holds my gaze with those earnest pools of darkness, which somehow contain a sun’s worth of light, and I don’t know what to say.

  He exhales with total control, releasing tension in those broad round shoulders, and I notice for the first time he’s holding something, a square object.

  “I have researched human relations,” he starts.

  I’m relieved he lets the trust thing drop. Why is that? Wait, he’s moving closer. There’s hardly any room between us now. I’m pressed so far into the downcore behind me I worry the blowgun will pop out of my pants. “You wish for what’s called wooing. This customary game, where the man shows the woman that resistance is impractical, strikes me as quite pointless.”

  “That’s not wooing!”

  He pauses, eyebrow raised.

  “No. You’re wrong on that point,” I insist. “Wooing’s when the man seeks to gain the affection of the woman.”

  “I do not understand. That is just what I said.”

  I stare at him, surprised and disturbed that he doesn’t get the difference.

  “No, it’s not. Your idea of wooing, well, it implies forcing affection. That doesn’t work.”

  “But when the woman already feels attraction to a man, as you do for me, what is being forced?”

  “I’m not attracted to you!”

  He knits his brow, appearing genuinely baffled. He mutters something that doesn’t translate.

  “You were, what is the term?, jealous, that I should take part in the Chitt’t’on, no? When I am near you, you emit potent pheromones and your pupils dilate. I admit I do not understand why the human female pretends otherwise, but if you insist on this game, of denying your desire for me, I would play along. I am a very patient man.”

  Oh, the arrogance!

  He glances at my mouth and his smile disappears. He shifts his weight and presents the object in his hands.

  “To begin our courting, I bring you a gift. This time not for my sift. But for my lover.”

  My cheeks burn at his forwardness. How can he be so confidant having never done this before? I should have hand here!

  “I’m not your lover!”

  His eyes darken, as if that were possible.

  “No. Not yet. You would take this.”

  He pushes the object at me, finally looking uncomfortable.

  I glance down. It’s a book. A real book. How in the universe? Strange writing jumps out at me. I glance up at him. I flash back to the night he took me from ESE. Hiding under my downcore, hearing the intruder examine the books on my shelf.

  “It is The Book of Battles. The fights that Thell’eons have waged against Aeons. It is the only book of our people. Inside, I have included a hand-translator. When you scan it over the page it would convert our writing to English. I give this to you.”

  An awkward silence ensues when I don’t reach for the book.

  A twinge of obligation that comes with any gift confuses me. Then I remind myself of what’s at stake, of what matters to me. Glancing up at him, I observe an almost human male, realizing he’s about to be refused. “I’m not accepting it, Or’ic,” I say quietly.

  Instead of appearing deflated or humiliated, however, he sulks, like someone’s refused him a treat.

  “You make this more difficult for yourself.” He tosses the book onto the downcore.

  “I make it difficult?”

  Oh, the gall of this Thell’eon! “You, you, took me from my people. You’re coercing me to do what you want. You branded me, like a pet! Do you get that? A stupid gift could never change how you’ve treated me.”

  I watch his expression darken. Ah, now I have gotten through to him.

  He glares down at me.

  “You are the most selfish, foolish species that I have ever encountered!” he seethes, his fury frightening me. I try not to show it. “Here you stand before me, the best hope our universe has to survive Aeons, whose evil you have experienced first hand, knowing, that sifters with Thell’eons may be able to end the scourge and set the expanse to right after billions of years. Yet you care nothing for this! You care only for your trivial wishes and desires in the moment! You do not deserve to be a sift!”

  My mouth pops open. “Uh, well, guess what? I don’t want to be a sift! I never asked for this!”

  I try to slip away at the side, shocked by the brutality of his words, but he boxes me in, placing both arms against the downcore.

  “Move!” I’m breathing heavy and yet very little oxygen appears to be reaching my head.

  He’s oozing energy. And heat. Lots of it. He waits. His prey’s right where he wants it. Trapped.

  I look up into his eyes.

  He seems exasperated, unusual for him.

  “I do not know how I could possible be so attracted to someone who is so pathetic.”

  I gasp, his words striking with the power of a fist.

  “I have watched you over this time. I have been inside your mind. You do nothing but lie to yourself. All humans exist in this condition but you are a special case.” He shakes his head. “You live a half-life, in a constant state of denial over who you are. Over your ability to sift, your strength, your desires, your beauty,” he trails off.

  “Wake up,” he whispers in my ear. “This is real. This is your life now. Here. With me.”

  I concentrate on my breaths, shallow as they are. I don’t dare look up at him. Instead, I stare at his chest, my mind whirring. I should be red in the head right about now. But, but pride’s weaker than truth because what he says resonates somewhere deep down.

  I have spent most of my life ashamed, confused, lost, not knowing what I am. No, not knowing who I am. Not being honest with myself.

  I’ve built up walls to protect myself for fear of not knowing, for fear of letting others down, for fear of letting myself down. And yet, I spend every waking hour always desperate to be something, to be somebody, to be validated. Then, when I finally gain some understanding, some insight, what do I do? I hide from it, like the chicken heart that I am.

  Tears of frustration brim in my eyes.

  Torn, I fight the urge to run and hide, mentally and physically, with every fiber of my bei
ng. To prove him wrong.

  And somehow, I manage to stand still.

  The last thing I expect from him right now is tenderness. But that’s what he offers, acceptance in a simple brush stroke of my cheek. His other hand touches my shoulder. I remain motionless, staring at his chest.

  One, two, three, tears spill over.

  He brushes them away.

  Who is this man? What is doing to me? I look up at him, confused, pleading for . . . what?

  Here’s a man who knows exactly who he is. A man who never hesitates, who has not one nano-molecule of self-doubt, who lives his life with purpose, determination, grit, and passion, who always knows exactly what he wants because he knows exactly who he is.

  His mouth grabs my mouth, hard. His tongue delves against mine, claiming what is his.

  And I let him.

  How can my body betray me like this?

  He effortlessly hoists me up onto the downcore, no protest here, and presses between my spread legs, his hands twining in my hair, holding me against him, exploring my mouth, kissing my face, my neck. I’m feverish with a weird mix of excitement and desire.

  Where’s my reason? My lower half answers, Because he’s your lust-trap. Everyone has one. Now use him.

  No.

  Why not?

  Because he’ll use you first.

  Where did that come from?

  Then his words ring in my head. To make his sift happy. He doesn’t want you.

  This dawning gets stuck somewhere up in my throat, as the rest of my body’s softly acquiescing to his every move.

  Or’ic leans back, inhaling sharply. His hands gently tilt my head up so I’m staring into his eyes. He wears his assuming smile.

  “Maybe I would teach you how to be human.”

  A second passes, and then another, before I realize what’s happened. My heart sees reason and rebels. Finally!

  I may not know who I am, yet, but I know who I am not.

  I’m not the kind woman who heels to a touch of a super attractive, ridiculously arrogant man, though I may be temporarily beckoned by it since I am only human. I’m not some halfpenny Thell’eon sifter. And, even if I have a propensity toward denial, I make my own decisions.