by Amanda Milo
...Warm fuzzies? I shake my horns impatiently and hold up the jar. “It’s housed in glass and sealed with a non-porous stopper. How much cleaner do you require?” I set it down just inside the blacksmith stall’s doorway, as out of the way as anything here, thinking I’ll use it on her at shift’s end to set her muscles at ease for the night.
“Our salves don’t have spit in them,” she adds, like this is significant.
My tail slaps the ground, agitated, and peripherally I wonder why I haven’t shouted at her to go back to rock collecting. From the looks others are darting at us, I suppose they are wondering the same. Wisely though, none of them voice complaint. In fact, some of them are looking downright pleased about something. Perhaps they are viciously looking forward to me verbally attacking Isla for her idleness, even if their faces don’t look vicious. Then again, most of the watchers are human. Perhaps I simply can’t read them as well as I believe I can.
As if Isla can read the direction of my thoughts, she moves off to lift a rock. I follow her as she begins walking it to the nearest waiting wagon, and I lean down to scoop up a boulder as I fall into step beside her. “Are you implying that my saliva isn’t clean?”
Isla’s head tilts, and I get a flash of her eyes before she returns her gaze ahead of us and reaches up to deposit her rock over the cart’s side. “Well…”
When she turns to find another rock, I catch her by her sleeve, the one that covers her arm that I administered my saliva to. “‘Well’ what?”
“Bash, it’s spit.”
“Yes.”
“Nobody wants to be spit on.”
I frown. I gesture to everyone around us. “Who could make this claim? And what difference does the application make?”
“The application?”
I throw a hand out to indicate nearby Rakhii; all coupled, all with their human mate as close to their side as they can keep her and still allow her the freedom to move and work. “I’ve watched males lick humans every day.” I gesture to other humans, ones not paired to Rakhii. “Hells, I spit on these humans every day.”
Isla makes a face but her head is tilted down enough I can’t read her expression. I loop a length of my tail around her from her forehead to her crown and tilt her face up high enough that I can read her. I register only a momentary glimpse before she shows she’s startled by my action. “I also spat on you yesterday,” I tell her. Then I release her.
She blinks up at me. “All right, I hadn’t thought about it that way. I guess the chewed-up greens plus spit just freaked me out. Where I’m from, that’s the contents of a spittoon. And that’s going too far, for me. It’s weird, I know.”
I snort down at her, smoke drifting towards her face. A smile curves her lips as she bats it away.
“Thanks for the massage,” she tells me, sounding sincere. At least at first, with these words. Something altogether different enters her voice when she adds, “even if you were super proud of finishing quick.”
I narrow my eyes at her, sensing that she’s teasing me somehow. I also sense that she is complimenting me, commenting on the skill of my hands. It’s pathetic, how my hearts swell with her simple praise. “Hnrrr,” I growl at her.
Rakhii ears nearest to us swivel, as do hob’s heads; they hear the warning in the sound.
Isla’s ears detect the warning just as easily, too. But instead of growing concerned, she laughs.
It’s such a pleasant sound that my quills and spines fall. My defenses quite literally down, defeated by the sound of a female’s laughter.
At this realization, I spit fire—
(Off to the side of me, not at Isla. I singe a hob by mistake, making him hiss.)
—and abandon her area. I’m not too proud to admit to myself that I’m fleeing. Creator save me from the indignity, but I run from a teveking human.
CHAPTER 8
BASH
I cross to the opposite side of the rock collection area, forcing myself to be patient today with the humans who mill about my legs as if they don’t know that crowding me makes me want to stampede through them. When I lose patience, I sweep my tail out and curl it around a group of five or so bodies, hauling them to the side. Once they’re wide-eyed and huddled where I want them, I snap my tail free of the feel of them and curl it in the other direction, capturing the humans who are finally getting the sense that they should scuttle out of the way, but are still too teveking slow. I forcefully assist them in the endeavor, and then I stride along my cleared path. At this rate, I’ll need to start carrying anti-bonding spray in a holster. I spit on my tail and drag it along my trousers to scour it free of human touch. It’s a long walk in which I have to ignore many, many humans as they hesitantly greet me and call my name. Some of the new ones are unhappy with their assigned task for the day. They want to appeal to me, have me change this or that. Like true princesses, each and every one of them thinks that they should have full say in what they do and where they go.
Finally, I reach the blissfully quiet and lightly trafficked area where my throne sits. Made of stone slabs jutting up from a carved stone dais, its back nearly abuts the smooth quarry wall. Along the top of the throne, stone-breaking and blacksmithing implements are strapped standing straight up. Viewing it, one receives the impression of a sharp, dangerous, and vaguely king-like seat. The throne was assembled as a jest by a handful of hobs and Rakhii who’ve worked for me for solars. Oh, did we have a good laugh together over it; we laughed and laughed and then they stopped laughing when I claimed it.
I’m near to depositing my lunch satchel in the seat of it when my gait breaks, my toes making a rasping noise against the ground as I come to an abrupt halt. Because behind my chair are odd symbols scratched onto the basin wall of the canyon.
I approach the area swiftly, brushing a finger over one of the marks. The dust comes up somewhat, but the mark was made with a shard of stone; it’s cut into the wall itself. Not deeply, but etched deep enough that it will take a few rains before it washes away.
I spin slowly, my toes stretching as I take measured, stalking steps up to the closest human. When I close my fingers around her elbow, she yelps as if I’ve dropped a mouthful of fire on her. It sends a fleet of hobs into the air, all bent on intervening—so I drag her with me and keep up a quick clip. She’s babbling too fast for my translator to catch all her words, but they seem to be about what one would expect from a human. “Please don’t kill me,” and “I’m sorrrry!” and appeals to the great Creator for salvation. When we reach the scratched rockface, I physically point the terrified female so that she’s facing the wall instead of simply trying to shrink into nothing while she cowers from my hands. I’m all patience when I inquire, “What does this say?”
Startled dark eyes meet mine in confusion before she follows to where I’m pointing. She begins to shake her head wildly, with even more fear filling her expression. Words begin pouring from her too fast to make any sense of them. I wiggle her by the arm. (Not roughly. Her teeth don’t even clack together.) The hobs who are speeding our way begin hollering for me to let her go.
“Speak slowly, please,” I instruct her.
She’s trembling all over. “I don’t read English!”
I frown. “Tevek.” Thanks to the translator translating their words, I never have to discern the different origin-regions between the humans. One could discern the difference; you’d only have to listen to them closely. Pay attention to their individual accents.
That’s never teveking happening.
I release the alien and stalk back to the herd for another.
Wind whistles over leathery wings; it’s the sound of hobs speeding past me. One of them drops out of the sky into a skid that ends with him on his knees before the female I’ve discarded. His hands come up gently, cupping her face. I don’t wait to see the others landing to comfort her. I’m on a mission. Unfortunately, the cries of one have set off alarm in the others and now they’re all more wary of me than usual. They race to edge back
from me even as I storm straight to them. It’s ironic: when I want them out of my way, they only manage to be underfoot. It’s baffling. If they’re capable of being this good at avoiding me, why can’t they stay out of my way all the time? When I near the retreating mass, I feint, watch them all change direction like a startled school of fish—then I snatch a female by the gathering cord that bundles her long mane. My ears fold sharply, trying to protect my hearing from the shrillness of her sudden scream.
Over the din, I hear a clearly-called, “BASH!”
I expect Gracie because that female can be counted on to put her snout in my business and to dance in danger’s way, always—but when I glance over my shoulder, my dorsal spines fall against my back. Because it isn’t Gracie—it’s Isla.
“Are you traumatizing innocent women again? Pro tip: don’t tell them your muscle rub is made of alien slobber...” She trails off, seemingly struck dumb at the sight of my trapped human. “Um, Bash? Let go of her ponytail before you snatch her bald.”
The human with this ‘ponytail’ is stumbling and sobbing and escaping me before I even process that my hand released her. I stare down at my clawed fingers as if I don’t know them anymore. Then I bring narrowed eyes to Isla. “Come with me.”
Isla’s expression almost becomes hesitant. By her words, I see her concerned pause is a lie. “I can’t believe you just grabbed that chick by her hair. Are you feeling okay, Mr. Hyde?” She feigns a wince, her comely nose wrinkling. “Or is it Dr. Jekyll right now?”
I give a hard tilt of my horns in the released-human’s direction. “Does she look injured to you?”
Isla eyes me, giving me a lightly disappointed look that I feel like a horn stab into my gut. “She’s totally freaked out.”
“That is not what I asked. Also, I cannot control the emotions of others.”
“Sure, but you have to grab her by her hair? You could stand to be a little nicer,” she chides.
My nostrils flare. Smoke burns my throat, and I bare my teeth, exhaling it from under my lips. “This is me ‘nice.’”
Isla drops her nose and widens her eyes meaningfully. “Mayyybe work on that.” Then she throws her small arm out, gesturing. “Lead the way, Grumpy.”
I move to lead her to my chair, and she trots to keep up with me. It comes as no surprise at all that she chatters the entire way there. “Seriously. You were fine a minute ago. What got you upset?” She gives me a shrewd look. “Have you had breakfast? You haven’t, have you? I think maybe there’s a correlation here.”
I slow my pace and scowl down at her. “I’m not upset.”
Her hairline seems to lift as she makes a show of tilting her head and raising her browfurs high, high, high up on her soft-looking, no-scaled forehead. “Whatever you say, buddy.”
Buddy. My translator supplies: friend.
My chest fills with heat, like I’ve swallowed my own fire.
Hobs suddenly drop to the ground around us like the flock of guards to a princess. I’m sure they wished they were Isla’s guards, or any female’s. To belong in a service is a hob’s greatest desire. They move to flank us—surrounding me in case they need to catch and hold me, and surrounding Isla in order to tug her away from me should they feel she’s being threatened.
In an oppugnant reaction, my tail whips out and wraps itself around Isla’s belly and jerks her against my side.
The hobs slam into each other, all their eyes going round at the sight of me clutching a human so closely. I ignore them and tow an amused-but-slightly-alarmed Isla alongside me.
When we reach the wall, I drag her right up to the face of it. “What does this read in English?” I ask her. I inhale deep, intending to roar a little, intending to vent some frustration… but I freeze. The moment her scent coats my nose, the bumps on my tongue plump. Their texture becomes more noticeable. Not rough enough to abrade the roof of my mouth, but each bump itches to be buried in a very particular substance.
From a very specific female.
My claws want to dig into Isla’s clothing, hold her fast to feast on her. Just picturing it has me unable to temper a suggestive growl.
Isla twists her neck, craning her gaze up to me, holding her closest eye wider than the other. “Am I allowed to back up so I can see what it says?”
I consider this. My scales rise with my next sniff. Isla citrus. Then I relax my tail, letting it fall from her waist.
Giving the coiled heap of scales and blades and prehensile muscle a pointed look as she steps over it, she backs a few paces from the wall inscription, her eyes roving from left to right. Then she smiles.
“What?” I grumble blackly.
She shines me a very entertained look before biting her lip. “Oh, Not-Grumpy, you’re gonna love this.”
“Will I.”
“It says, ‘Be Alert… Feelings Can Get Hurt. Days Without Making Someone Cry: 1.’”
Mystified, I make a face. “What nonsense is it speaking? Is it some sort of riddle?”
Both of Isla’s pink lips disappear. She’s sucked them into her mouth.
The sight has parts of me swelling uncomfortably.
I shake myself. “Speak, Isla.”
She waves her hand at the words. “It’s like an Injury Counter.” At my look of incomprehension, she explains, “On Earthen worksites, it’s common to have these counters that add up days without injury. They act as reminders to be careful, and as an incentive because everybody likes to achieve a high score, and accidents mean work time gets lost.”
“Hnh,” I grunt. “I can see the wisdom.” Then my eyes turn to slits, moving over the alien characters scratched in my quarry. “Someone compares bodily harm to tears?”
“Uhh…” Isla starts.
My tail cracks against the ground. “Emotional versus physical harm is nothing alike. Perhaps someone needs a demonstration of the difference.”
“Yo, Bash!” a voice calls—and tevek me, but I know it is Gracie this time. I’m growling before I even turn around. I’m technically growling before she finishes addressing me. I will go to my pyre hearing her voice. She’s like an ear mite that no amount of miticide will drown. She’s a fearless, unpleasant, persistent spokesperson for all these troublesome foreign intruders.
“What is it now?” I snarl in warning, my muscles swelling as I turn on her. I bare my fangs. “Did you do this?” I stab a claw at my canyon’s wall.
“Oh, God save the Queen! I call the chair,” Gracie groans, almost waddling for my throne.
I slap my tail down in front of her, the blades sinking into stone. “Do Not. Touch. My chair.”
Unshaken—unfortunately literally and figuratively unshaken—she holds up her hands, unperturbed. “No touchie on the big brick Lay-Z-Boy, not even for the pregnant woman, you font of sympathy, you.”
“I was thinking that it looked more seven-kingdoms’ sword-thronesque,” Isla admits.
Gracie snaps her fingers. “That’s what it is, and fuck—we’ve probably missed the end of that show by now. We’ll never know who gets the throne.”
“Tyrion, obviously,” Isla says, for all the worlds appearing as if she’s pretending to be ruffled.
“Nah, gotta be Danni-girl. She’s got dragons.”
Both of them eye me.
Isla whispers, “Dragons can be pretty intimidating.”
Gracie’s expression sharpens on Isla, her eyes and smile and manner turning sly. “But you’re not intimidated, are you?”
Smoke curls up in front of my vision as I exhale through my nostrils. “I’m only going to order you once to tell me who dared to do this. If you don’t know or if you don’t answer then I’m going to shake the truth out of the other humans.”
Isla holds up her hand. “What if they don’t know?”
“Then I will have shaken a lot of humans.”
Gracie heaves a loud sigh and rubs at her lower back like it’s paining her. “Krispy Kremes on crutches, Rakhii are so aggressive.” She meets my stare. “Who cares
who did it? It doesn’t hurt anything.” She strolls past me and over to the wall, drops her gaze down to the ground, searching, and finally selects a hand-sized rock, which she retrieves with much muttering and some show of discomfort when she bends down. She tests it, finds it makes the same mark of stone-on-stone that made the inscription, and she adds two horizontal lines and a vertical line to the very last character-strike in the string of alien text.
My glower should ignite her. “What did you just write?”
She drops the rock, dusting off her hands. “I changed it to zero.”
My ears sling forward. “Why?”
Gracie dares to send me a displeased face. “Not that you care, but you’re no longer running one day without making anyone cry, Bash.”
I glare at her. “I gained a mark.” I wave to what was a one. “You can’t take it back.”
Isla raises a stalling finger. “Remember how I said it was a counter? It resets to zero every time there’s an incident. If someone cries today, you lose your headway.”
“That,” I say firmly, “is asinine, and I have made no being weep this day.”
Isla winces (genuinely, this time), and Gracie slings her thumb to indicate my attention should go to something behind me.
As instructed, I turn. But I do it sending a withering look at whoever is lurking, waiting to catch flame.
Several someones stand huddled, it turns out. The females I drafted for assistance in reading my wall happen to be showing slight signs of emotional trauma. There is definite… sniffling. I growl, unimpressed. “Infernofire.” My eyes catch movement, and I glance over, noticing four humans standing in a knotted little grouping. One with a mane the color of sun-bleached straw, one with a short mane the color of pocket lint, one with a mane darker than a Narwari’s pupils, and one with a mane almost the color of a sunset. Not a spectacular sunset, just an average one. Yet still, she’s memorable. I suppose all of them are, because I know and remember all of them. And all four of the females are staring at me.