by Amanda Milo
Three hobs nearby—all laden down with huge rocks—sigh. One of them looks super worried. Not for himself but for the poor woman in our angry alien boss’s clutches.
“Waaaaait,” I call, resigned.
Bash stops, but only turns his head enough that he can see me out of the corner of his eye. “Are you going to follow me this time?”
I jog over to him and tap his fingers where he’s holding the very scared-looking woman. “Let her go.”
Bash’s imperial green gaze bores into mine. “If I release her and you don’t follow, I’ll collect another.”
“I’ll go with you,” I mutter. “Good gravy, you’re nuts.”
He opens his hand, and the woman could not trip away any faster. She sends me a worried but grateful look as she retreats.
Warily, I eye Bash. “Why do you want me to follow you?”
“If I could tell you and be finished then I wouldn’t waste time taking you with me, now would I?”
“You really are a jerk.”
Bash’s ears go all wonky for a moment before he shakes them out, and I get a small kick out of the idea of him getting a brain full of pink fluffy platypus every time he hears the word jerk. I am so going to say it more often, completely randomly, just to amuse myself.
CHAPTER 13
ISLA
“Let me see your hand.”
Reluctantly, all wariness, I show Bash my hand. I’d followed the grouchy alien a moment ago because he told me to. I figured if he was stopping me from getting work done, it must be important. He led me to a little set up that sits about midway in the quarry that I’ve seen but hadn’t yet investigated.
The building is less than a shed but more permanent in structure than a tent; I guess it’s a blacksmith’s stall—the anvil is my kingpin clue. It sits at the back along with the rest of what I assume is a forge setup. There’s a long wooden table up front that’s situated away from the hot surfaces and blackened tools, but close enough to be positioned under the building’s overhang for shade and, I imagine, safer from any rain should it ever fall here. So far, every day has been sunny and dry. My eyes move over the table surface cluttered with supplies, and I have to wonder if Bash ever gets crafty with this stuff. Obviously, he’s not the guy you’d think of asking to visit a Hobby Lobby with, but there’s somebody in this quarry who would appreciate a trip to that addiction trap. There are buckles and decorative conchos and all sorts of stamp and stab implements. It’s like looking at the operating table of a serious fashion surgeon.
But Bash may not have anything to do with this at all. There’s a man who I’ve seen working in here—or a hob, rather. He’s here now, occasionally shooting glances at us while he rasps something with a steel brush. He’s wearing long brown gloves that fit up to his elbows and a heavy-looking smock, with more pockets on it than some of the ones the women wear for quarry work. Then again, we work with rock; we don’t need pockets. This guy works with lots of tools. Tools he can use to shove metal stuff under hot, hot flames.
I jerk my thumb at the hob and look to Bash. “I thought you told me once that hobs don’t play with fire.”
Bash catches my hand by my fingers and brings my digits closer to his face. “I said they don’t like to. There are exceptions. Cyden is a sterling example.”
His breath is warm on my skin, and he’s touching me. These aren’t just butterflies I’m experiencing in my belly; it’s an Olympic team of women’s soccer players, and they’re freaking out for me like we’re winning the game.
I let him look at me all he wants, feeling him gently grasp my wrist and articulate my hand like he’s memorizing the special way mine and mine alone moves. My eyes keep roaming—not staring back at him, but around us, checking out the little shack and the table we’ve moved behind. Bolts of skin that hopefully aren’t human (okay, some of the skins have scales and some have feathers so those are not bona fide human hide—it’s just that most are smooth on both sides and in a concerning array of flesh tones. But I’m absolutely sure no one has been letting Bash skin and tan women) are neatly arranged one atop the other in a stack. As I already noticed, there’s a scattering of tools over the surface of the table, along with, I now see, rolls and chunks of not-human leather. “What are the skins on your table made of?” I ask, feigning total unconcern.
“Not humans, unfortunately.” Eyes heating to an unsettling emerald, Bash casts a glance of regret past me at my fellow women. “A damned waste.”
“We’re not walking bags of leather,” I inform him.
“Some of you aren’t working bags of leather either,” he counters, then turns his face far enough away so as not to deafen me when he bellows, “YOU! Yes, you, with the mane the color of stale vleip; are you here to stand and flirt?” He narrows his eyes until they’re nothing more than neon glowing slits of irritableness. “That’s right,” he agrees, answering her when she replies in the negative, and my gaze is glued to his lips, the way his scales shift as he smiles. It isn’t a nice smile, technically, and yet he is weirdly handsome when he sends her a scary smile and hisses, “Get moving.”
My eyes move to his head of quills that, unlike hair, are raising themselves up in a relaxed sort of way, an indicator of his mood, essentially saying that now that he’s done yelling at the human who dared to talk to a guy at work, he’s happy to get back to business.
“Have you heard the story of Ebenezer Scrooge yet?” I ask him.
Eyes a pleasant shade of unripe banana peels, Bash’s attention fixes wholly on me. “No, I have not. But I would like to hear you tell it.”
My heart thumps because it likes that Bash is admitting I can do something that he’d enjoy.
Bash’s gaze wanders back to the women working nearby. “Speaking of human leathers, that one over there?” He tips his head, and my eyes follow the tip of his horn as it jerks in the direction of a woman named Tara. I’ve met her; she’s nice. Mother of the cutest twin girls ever. “She would make for an interesting hide. A herd of ones with skin like hers and a person could make lovely items.”
I stare at the alien. “Shame on you! She is a person.”
Bash’s gaze swings back to me, looking startled. “Ah.” He shocks me by lowering his ears and it may only be a tiny, tiny fraction—but he ducks. “Apologies. I mean no offense; only that her skin pattern is interesting if one considered her in terms of leather products.”
“That person is not a leather product; she’s the mother of two babies, and she is freckled, as are her adorable babies,” I explain, telling myself that I should not find this funny, but Bash’s shame is making me smile against my will. “And if this is the way you think when you see us, I’m also going to tell you a story about a woman named Cruella. She had a thing for spots too and it didn’t end well for her. I think you need this story.”
Bash’s eyes flick to Tara—or more aptly, the Rakhii who has his tail wrapped around Tara. “Harvesting that one wouldn’t end well for me, either. Her mates are very protective of her.”
“Imagine that.” I shake my head at him.
Bash cuts me a look, but he doesn’t gripe at me. He’s still feeling a little bit contrite, clearly. I glance to the blacksmith hob who has to be close enough to hear us, wondering what he thinks of his boss being nice, for once, but I get side-tracked when I see the hob’s wings. Normally, they carry them so that the little thumb-like talons sit high above their shoulders, but right now, this hob’s thumb talons are touching the quarry floor; he’s splaying his wings out behind him like steadying hands, all the finger-like bones spread to give him absolute stability. A bat clinging to cave rock. He’s staring intently at whatever metal he’s working on, and he’s wearing protective eye gear as flames and sparks spray in front of his face. He’s using what looks like a blow torch.
He’s welding.
I shoot Bash an incredulous look. “Why don’t Rakhii do the welding?” I eye him. “Can you weld? Or is your fire not hot enough?”
This gets me a
disgruntled flash of Bash’s eyes before he goes back to examining my hand. His ears flick before snapping behind his head, sort of haughty-set, maybe thanks to me questioning the ability of the mighty Rakhii. And if being conscience-stricken kept him less growly a moment ago, that’s no more. “Of course I can weld. Anyone can weld—especially a Rakhii. But there are welders and there are metal artists. Cyden is a hob who happens to have a gift—a great gift—for taking metal and turning it into true art.”
“That’s neat.”
Bash makes a contemplative noise and he flicks my arm. I glance at the spot, surprised he finger-struck me, until I see the swollen red dot where a piece of rock sliver dug into my skin yesterday. I wasn’t able to get it out, but I figured it wasn’t big enough to worry about.
Bash warns, “Hold still,” before he grabs me, blows fire on his claw, digs it under the sliver, and sweeps it out so fast I can barely do more than squeak—then he spits on me.
“Okay.” I jerk on my hand and he lets me go. I shake it out like you would a drool-coated newspaper retrieved by a well-meaning dog. “I grasp that culturally, there is no insult in being spit upon by a seven-and-a-half-foot-tall guy who thinks humans are a step up above bugs and cowhide, but where I come from—” I widen my eyes at Bash, who peers at me, then my mouth, before drawing his gaze back up to mine “—what you did would be considered pretty shocking.”
“Healing you, you mean? Yes, after hearing your awe regarding wheels and tires that inflate, I can’t say I’m surprised.”
“No! I mean the spitting thing. You don’t just hack up on someone. Give me a warning!”
To that, he catches me by the arm (where there’s no more red spot) and enunciates, “Brace yourself. I’m going to administer a medically approved topical treatment for your wound, and I wouldn’t want to awe the brains right out of your skull.” He curls his lips up and spits on me. Again. Then he pins me with a brows-raised look of impressive impassivity. “Better?”
“A touch heavy on the sarcasm, but I can run with this if you can. Thanks.” I try to take my limb back, but he doesn’t let it go.
He completely ignores that I’m wiggling my arm trying to struggle free from him. He adds two more clawtips on top of my skin as if to lightly steady me as he examines it.
When he reaches for a length of buttery soft leather that was sitting on the table, he holds it up to my hand… and I stop fighting him.
It’s a glove.
It has dark tan stitching in small, neat rows. Bash lets me go and takes a seat—and when he does, I have to dodge because at this height, and at the way he sits angled to the table and me, his horn almost clocks me in the face. Bash mutters, “Apologies.” Then he’s focused on the leathercraft. He begins making adjustments to his creation, even sewing more stitches onto his project.
Bash, holding a thick needle between his big thumb and finger pads, his talons touching on their sides as he pinches the metal and precisely threads the material together...
Bash. Sewing.
It was one thing to imagine that he might know how to do it, and another thing entirely to see how absorbed he is in doing it with serious skill. He… he looks like he might be enjoying such a domestic-looking task. You couldn’t surprise me more if Martha Stewart showed up in the quarry to ask Bash to help her fold dinner napkins. Or if this towering monster suddenly turned into one of Cinderella’s cute little seamstress mice.
“You made this?” I ask Bash in wonder. “It’s sized for my hand. You made me a custom glove.” Didn’t he tell me that hobs do textile work? Clearly Bash knows how. He also said that female Rakhii work with ceremonial garb; maybe he learned how from his mom. As I examine the fine workmanship, I’m blown away at how talented he is.
Bash doesn’t acknowledge what he’s done. He doesn’t say anything as he takes up another bit of leather from the table, and suddenly he’s turning (careful to keep his horn from swinging at me this time) and sliding a leather sock over my short arm.
Then he pulls the long glove over my hand and tugs it up until it passes the bend of my elbow, where it folds back to form a sort of sleeve.
I stand there, too stunned to move, and meanwhile Bash is looking me over with a tailor’s eye. And maybe a tailor’s quiet pride. No smile graces his scaled face, but his gaze is warm, even pleased as he declares, “This will protect your skin as you reach for stone.” He taps the glove. “And now you can use your short wing for grasping like you do, and the leather will make it so that your skin does not tear it up when you do it.”
My short wing.
My eyes are starting to prickle. The gratitude is that overwhelming. “You… Bash! This is so thoughtful! Oh my goodness...”
Bash glances up from his work fitted over my arms, takes a look at my face—and thumps his feet to the ground, shoving himself to tower over me. He takes a step back. “Nhnnrr,” he growls.
“That wasn’t even a word,” I tell him, my voice all watery as I try not to cry. “Stop looking all stiff and mean! This is… this is so nice of you!”
“Rrrr.”
He’s not even trying to say anything now; he’s just looking everywhere except at me, making uncomfortable growly noises like me displaying emotion is too disturbing for him to bear. Too bad. “Bubashuu...”
He twitches, I think from me using his full name. But he pretends to peer off, like stuff in the quarry is so much more interesting than meeting my watering eyes.
“You may not have said the words,” I poke him, which makes him jump and scowl, “but you were sorry you hurt my feelings. You care. We’re on the fast track to besties now, aren’t we?” Air sweeps over my wet face as I smile huge and hold up my gloves, making sock puppet faces with my hand. “You really can make a good friend.”
His lip peels up. And not in a smile.
“Uh-oh. Was the sock puppet too much?”
“Friend,” he snarl-mutters. He finally meets my eyes, but he throws his awl down on his table and steps away, backing away from me.
He commands, “Go back to your station. And don’t let your leader lift one stone.” His gaze rakes me over once, and then he’s gone, his dorsal spines high and his tail looking a little stiff and kinked.
And I grin. Because sure, he’s being abrupt right now.
But he totally made me a custom work glove set.
And he dropped that little edict about Gracie, my ‘leader’—for Gracie’s safety. The great Bubashuu, Quarry Master, is worried about her. He’s not being an asshole; we’re working on rocky ground with alien horses that act a bit dangerous, where there are lots of big boulders, and big working aliens, and busily working humans. He’s got a point—pregnant women probably shouldn’t be doing heavy manual labor in the midst of this chaos.
So Bash is growly… but under all that scowl and growl, Bash is really a pretty nice guy.
CHAPTER 14
ISLA
There’s a big ‘ol number one back on Bash’s No-Crying Counter and he’s almost smug about it. He even bowed his horns when Gracie drew the number in place of the wiped-out zero, and he’s been in a sparkling good mood since.
“Here’s a shower thought,” I share. “In every town I’ve ever lived in, north USA to south, there’s a Maple Street. There’s also always an Oak Street, and a Pine Street—it’s all these deciduous trees,” I explain, “because every region on the East coast that I’ve lived in has these kinds of trees. And it got me thinking: on the other side of my country where the biomes make a hard change, are there Maple Streets in those towns too? Like in Arizona? Or is it more ‘Cactus Blossom Lane’ and desert-themed stuff because they don’t really have a whole bunch of maples and pines?”
Bash spares me a sidelong glance that proves he’s listening, but not surprisingly, he doesn’t comment.
That’s fine. I can keep the talk going enough for the both of us. I began our workday by giving him the CliffsNotes version of Scrooge—with special emphasis on the way he treated his employees—and
Cruella de Vil’s disastrous attempt at harvesting speckled puppy coats—to which Bash stated, “Her downfall was trusting two idiot employees. You need stalwart hires or you do the job yourself, if you expect it done right.”
I did inform him that he missed the point.
He reaches for another boulder, and since he hasn’t told me to shut up, I figure he doesn’t mind if I keep talking. “My guess is yes on the desert-only theme.” I heave my rock into a cart, stretch my spine, check the fit of my glove, and wave my leather-protected fingers at him. “Now you share a shower thought.”
Bash gives me serious side-eye. It’s a long up-and-all-the-way-down-and-back-again sort of look before he puts his gruff on. “I’m not sharing my bathing thoughts.”
A happy tingle hits me for some reason. “Well you have to share something.”
“On whose orders?” Bash questions archly. He drops his boulder in the cart.
“Mine.”
And for this, I get a rusty chuff.
“Did you just laugh?” I ask in wonder.
“Here’s a thought,” Bash says, sounding—I swear—lightly amused. “Get—”
“Back to work,” we finish together, with me sounding as put upon as I can make myself sound.
But on the heels of us finishing the suggestion-command together—just like best friends finish each other’s sentences, I’d like to point out—Bash adds, “Or else I’ll beat that hob over there.” His horns tilt to indicate the hob closest to us, and that hob raises his head from where he was bent to lift a huge rock, his eyes darting from Bash to me and back.
“Stop being mean to the hobs!” I admonish, looking around for someone to protect this poor alien. Gracie has taken over Bash’s rock throne, so she’s not here to protect the winged man. She’s holding court at the other end of the quarry, lording her lofty position over the slackers she’s riding herd on, too far away for her to overhear how one of her hobs is being threatened. She would not be okay with this. She would probably tear Bash a new one if she’d heard what he said just now.