by Amanda Milo
“What IS this?” I moan around the strange-looking egg beater that got shoved in my hand. Beside me, Bash is holding my beater’s match, only with less enthusiasm, and such a serious load of distrust that he hasn’t tasted what’s on his yet. He’s eyeing me licking the brown sticky confection off of the metal blades like I’m nuts for gobbling up brown sticky goo when I don’t actually know what the brown goo is.
“It looks like fecal material,” he murmurs like he’s trying to gently warn me away from it.
“Stop it! It’s not!”
“You don’t know that,” Bash insists, his whisper more of a worried hiss.
Laura laughs. “It’s not, I swear.” Her voice fills with a little pride. “And I’m glad you like it, Isla. That’s whipped dark chocolate mousse.”
Something I’ve totally heard of back home but apparently never tried. I’d have remembered this, believe me. “Oh my goodness, how is it that I’ve never tasted this before?” I gasp, dragging my tongue up the egg beater’s length passionately enough to make Bash’s ears stand straight up.
Bash reaches out and plucks my beater from my hand, and gives it a tentative taste. Shaking my head at him, I take his untouched one and go to town on it. If he’s afraid to try it unless my tongue’s approved it, that’s fine. I’ll be his taste tester anytime.
“If you tried it on Earth,” Laura says, “It probably tasted a bit different on account of the cream coming from different animals. Speaking of which, we’ve got to find an easier source of dairy. You tried milking a yanak yet?” she asks me.
My tongue stalls between the flat blades of the beater. “Yanyk?” I manage without drawing my tongue back.
Laura gives an unhappy shudder. “Not cows. They are not cows.”
I talk through slurping Bash’s beater clean. “I don’t want to know.” I hand the sparkling beater to Laura, and she eyes me before she delicately grasps the far, far end of it like I’ve covered the whole damn thing with slobber.
Bash draws his tongue back in his mouth, eyeing his secondhand beater like he’s undecided on this chocolate mousse stuff. He holds his out to Laura to take like he’s pinching trash between his fingers.
I attack it before it can leave his hand. “I’ll finish it if he won’t.”
“Be my guest,” Laura says.
“You could be licking poison,” he worries.
I nudge him with my knee. “It’s not poison, stop freaking out. And Laura, thanks for having us over. ANYtime you need a taste tester, you say the word,” I tell her.
Bash’s lips thin and his ears drop straight down.
Crispin coughs to hide his snicker.
Bash’s glare is cast in his direction.
I catch Bash by his tail, which catches his attention. I lick a bit of chocolate off my top lip, enjoying the way Bash watches my mouth. I finish the beater and hand it to Laura too. “This was fun! But,” I check my bare wrist, pretending to have a watch—a reference which means very little to Bash, because Rakhii don’t really wear watches. They have these wrist blades that would make wearing anything below-forearm kind of tricky. “Unless you guys have anything else you want us to try, we’re gonna head out. We need to meet with Mandi about drumsticks.”
“You’re welcome, and what’s this about drumsticks?” Laura asks, confusion painting her face. She waves a hand back at a table laden with test dishes. “Aren’t Crispin and I doing the ‘birds?’”
Her finger quotes clearly broadcast how we all feel about the weird-ass ‘birds’ that live on this planet. They aren’t chickens. They aren’t Turkeys. Think of Emus—but even angrier. And they can fly. Basically, it takes three hobs to hunt one bird down, but luckily, the birds carry a lot of muscle (i.e. meat) so each bird goes a long way, feeding a bunch of us at a time.
“You guys are still in charge of the birds. Mandi needs musical drumsticks, not—” I wave my hand at the burgeoning table behind her, because the birds we eat here? Their thigh-drumsticks are so big, it looks like we’re eating friggin’ dinosaurs. “—not the edible kind.”
“Mandi knows how to play an instrument?”
“Like every instrument,” I confirm, bobbing my head. “You should see the kid play the drums, I mean dang.”
“That’s neat,” she says, and Crispin nudges her from the sink and begins to wash the dishes. She grabs him by the neck and drags him down to nuzzle his ear.
He starts to purr.
Bash’s hands close over my ears. “It’s time for us to leave.”
Hob purrs have interesting effects on human females. It can drop us off to sleep or turn us on, depending on the type of purr-effort the hob exerts.
We say our goodbyes and back out of their house.
Technically, we live one door down from them. But I wouldn’t say we live ‘next door.’ Because it isn’t in the nature of either Rakhii or Gryfala to tolerate close neighbors, so we’ve got some serious space between our places. Everyone in the human village has space between their places.
It’s still not enough for Bash though.
So we’ve kept the cave. And when Bash has had too much people-ing—like tonight, no doubt, considering how many couples we’re making the rounds to visit—we’ll retreat there, where no one will bother us for the rest of the night. He won’t have to see anyone’s face but mine for hours and hours, and that’s the way he likes it.
And because I’m getting my visiting fix now, I’ll be fine all night. Like a battery, I just need to recharge my socializing meter and I’m good.
We visit Mandi, who needs a source for her drumsticks and reeds. Before talking with her, I had no idea that drummers go through a pair of sticks about every three hours.
“Where have you been getting them before this?” I ask.
She points to the male behind her. Her Catman-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named. “He’s whittled me every stick I’ve used.”
I clutch my hand over my heart. “That is so romantic. Dear God this is good TV!” I moan.
Rolling his eyes, Bash declares, “We’re leaving.”
“I can’t believe you’re spoiling this for me.”
“Don’t you mean pure spoiling you? Female, I’ve taken you everywhere. We’ve peopled until I could choke on them.”
“Only if you’ve actually been swallowing them,” Mandi points out.
He doesn’t reassure her that he hasn’t. He fixes her with his scowl. (He’s not mad. Right now, he just wants to go home.) “We have ceremonial drummers. I will speak with the ones I know. We will obtain sticks you can use.”
Surprise flashes across her face. “Thanks. I’d appreciate that.”
Bash nods and hauls me for the exit. Like he’s afraid if he doesn’t hurry, I’ll think of someone else to visit.
After shutting the door behind us, I happy sigh. “This was so fun!”
“I am glad you have enjoyed yourself,” Bash says genuinely—but dryly. Almost woodenly. Probably shell shock. We might have to go two days without seeing anyone before he recovers from today. “Are we finally allowed to return to our cave?” There’s a wistful sort of hope to his voice.
I try to shake his arm but it's as inflexible as steel. His tail wraps around my wrist and tugs me against him. “You held up so well!” I praise him. “I’m really proud of you. We’re done, and we can go home.”
“Thank the Creator.”
“I can’t wait for the celebration day. Putting this together has been great!” I sigh happily and wrap myself around him, smushing us together. “Gracie encouraged me to talk to Callie so we can do more fun human activities together once we’re done putting this on. We can do something on the regular, she says!”
“Did she.” Bash sounds like he’s having flame-filled, crispy thoughts about Gracie. If he’s trying to hide the threat in his voice at all, I can’t really tell. “I want a word with her to discuss this encouragement she’s so free with.”
I give his tail a squeeze. “This will be good for my extrovert-ness. I’ll
get my fill of people.”
“There are other ways to get your fill of people. I have a few in mind,” Bash mutters darkly. He guides me to our wagon, where a hitched trio of Narwari waits mostly patiently to drive us to the cave.
“Oh, you kidder,” I laugh. But I know he’s absolutely not. “C’mon, let’s go make you food you’ll actually eat. I think you might be getting hangry again.”
Bash has an entire conversation with himself under his breath (probably threatening lots of humans) but we quick-stroll hand in hand to our ride.
He sounds grumpy, but what he is is impatient—because Cyden gifted us with a new belt design for me. It’s both delicate and deadly-looking and just the sight of it drives Bash wild.
It’s thin, gracefully-wrought metal, created out of one rolled-steel waist strap and a second, deceptively small band that drops down, widening into a teardrop shape. Lined with yanak skin, which is crazy soft, it’s chafe-free and silk-feeling. It’s… elegant. It’s beautiful. It’s panty art.
It’s lighter in weight than my last one but it’s still two iron strips fitted to cup me from crotch to backdoor. It’s got some heft to it. It also still has teeth, which turns Bash’s crank. He doesn’t like it when he gets snagged on them but that anyone—himself included—can’t so much as randomly finger me (as if that was a problem I had to fend off on a regular basis) without damage puts him in the right mood.
As he turns the Narwari around and heads them in the direction of our private cave-home, I reach into his pocket and take hold of his key. You know, the one to my lock.
That’s all I have to do.
Bash’s body may as well be electrified. Like Pavlov’s dog, whenever I touch the key to my chastity belt, he starts to salivate.
He clucks to the Narwari and growls, “We need to find faster transportation. Perhaps we should invest in our own ship.”
I glance around us, exaggeratedly relaxed. “We could. Or you could stop us right here. It’s not like there’s anybody around…”
“Don’t tempt me, Isla,” Bash warns, fangs flashing. “Not after the last time.”
“Oh, that’s right.” I deflate a little. “I forgot about our poor carnivorous horses.”
They didn’t appreciate us rocking the wagon last time. They really didn’t appreciate us rocking the wagon.
CHAPTER 46
ISLA
The night of the play, everyone’s buzzing with excitement and nerves. Bash has spent the evening splitting time between hanging out with me on the catwalk, where he’s helped me dim and change the lights—
(And whenever we’re in each other’s vicinity, he keeps his tail wrapped snugly around my waist. At first, he was afraid I’d fall, but when he saw I’m very adept at moving up here, he relaxed enough that the tail-hugging is just that. And I like it.)
—and watching the play itself. Which made me laugh, because he watches the cast perform in the same way a man watches dragonflies dance on the water: he finds them sort of pretty, but they’re still just bugs.
Gah, I love him.
As far as our production goes, the Gryfala are enchanted. Telling a story through choreographed movement and music is not something they’ve enjoyed before. They’re a society devoted to work, not play, so this is wondrous enough for them that we might be putting productions together in the future, like Gracie thought, and I hoped for. Excitement sings through me as I realize I might not be giving up the work I love after all. I’ll get to design sets like these people have never seen, dazzle them all and get to watch the wonder on their faces as they enjoy the unique experiences for the very first time.
(Although Mandi points out that for them, this is probably a little like watching animal performances at the zoo. And when you imagine our dancers in terms of aliens, which is what we are to the Gryfala—we could be up here doing hand puppets and they’d probably enjoy the show.)
But who cares if they see us as trained dolphins with legs? We’re having a blast. This is awesome.
Obviously, the aliens think it’s awesome too. As dancers float across the stage (to a powerful orchestral symphony led by Mandi’s musically-inclined group), hobs are riotously smitten. And then they’re horrified. Because every set change (to the sound of Gracie’s shouts filling up the backstage) Rakhii are slipping behind the curtain and stealing some of our dancers. Some because they are their mates. Others… because they’re about to be. We should have hired some security. By the time the play concludes, we’ve lost over half of the troupe we began with.
For the last act, it’s noticeable. You could say it’s really noticeable. “Where are my dancers?” Callie asks. She left for two seconds to check on Baskian, who was strapped in a carrier harness on his daddy.
“Umm,” Angie winces. “Apparently Rakhii have a thing for dancers. Who knew, right?”
The music cuts out.
“You’re losing more as we speak,” Ella tells her. “Literally. If you hurry, you can save the last six—oops. Make that five.” She wrinkles her nose in sympathy. “I recommend that you park Zadeon just off stage and have him at least hold his fellow aliens off til curtain calls.”
Hmm, I don’t know if they know this, but Zadeon is currently in the wings, his tail slithering towards Callie—stalking her. With his appendage two seconds away from shooting across the stage and snatching his own female, he’s not going to be any help.
“How the heck are we going to end this if we’ve got all of five dancers?” Callie exclaims, looking to Gracie, expecting her to look equally furious. Instead, Gracie is rubbing her hands together.
“What’s that look for?” Angie asks.
Gracie grins. “The kitty cat just took Mandi.”
Every dancer and stagehand who survived the Rakhii raids appreciatively ooohs.
CHAPTER 47
ISLA
“This was beautiful work,” Bash rumbles adoringly. “The forest backdrops you created were magnificent.”
“So were yours. And I love your alien waterfowl.”
His claw taps me on the nose. “You are kind and supportive.”
“I also mean it. Your birds were so showy. They complemented the dancers perfectly.” I point down below us to the stage where a dozen women were portraying swans. “You know how their skirts sort of look like feathers? Kelly said it was so realistic, she thought for a moment they were real swans.”
Bash looks at the very wooden bird-shaped cut-out before his eyes slide back to me, no expression on his very Rakhii face.
“Okay, I’ll let you off the hook. She was being dramatic, and I know it. They looked like humans jumping around in frills and tulle skirts doing intricate leg kicks. And no matter how pretty, the bird pieces are still two-dimensional set dressing. But they’re cool. This whole deal was cool.”
“The dancers were beautiful in their choreography, or synchrony, or however you’d pay them compliment,” Bash agrees.
I give him a wide smile and go in for a quick hug before scooting around him and beginning to close down the area. The rigging is going to stay up for tonight, but all the electronics are coming down. Someone also needs to collect the musical instruments, and because Mandi got dragged off by her kitty cat, we’ll have to step in and do the pick-up job for her.
“GRRRR.”
I know that growl.
I raise my head from the mess of wires I’d been winding into neatened rolls to see Bash being cornered by Gracie.
I drop my bundle of wires and nimbly cross the catwalk to rescue my man. “Gracie, should you really be climbing up here?” I’m genuinely concerned.
Gracie waves my question away and gestures to something behind her.
“Ah,” I say, a smile taking over my face. “Right: hob-taxi.” Dohrein is perched in the shadows, wings relaxed in front of him like a cloak rather than keeping them closed and tucked behind his back. He brought her up here, and he’ll take her down. Much safer than her moving up and down on that ladder. “What’s up? And by that, I
mean how are you testing my husband’s patience this time?”
“Thank you,” Bash mutters. He reaches out and tenderly sweeps a lock of hair behind my ear. “You understand.”
I pat his ribs. “I’m here for you, love.” I raise my brows expectantly at Gracie.
Gracie is watching Bash playing with my hair, and she’s also watching how I’m touching him. She grins and her grin only gets bigger. “I came to share good news. Real good news. The Gryfala are wigging out over what we’ve got going on here, and they want more.”
“That is so awesome!” I squeak. Bash looks concerned at the change in my voice, but when he sees that this is how I express this level of happy, his expression turns bemused.
“It IS,” Gracie agrees, her eyes bouncing between me and Bash, “and this is an opportunity,” she stresses.
Bash releases a wordless grumble—all right, it’s really another growl, but I know how he means it. It’s a protest, not really aggression-aggression. Gracie’s man can just settle down back there.
“Easy Dohrein,” I say quickly, because her hob isn’t big on his mate getting grumble-growled at, I guess. To Gracie, I ask, “What kind of opportunity?”
Gracie folds her arms above her stomach. It’s a triumphant communication. “I say we put a value on our talent. We charge them to see the next show.”
I nod eagerly. “This was a lot of work.”
“Huge,” Gracie agrees. “If we do this again, everyone deserves to get paid for their time. And the Gryfala loved it. So did the hobs and the Rakhii. It’ll be bigger next time, we’ll attract others who heard about this one—they’ll come and they’ll pay because they know the out-of-this-planet entertainment is worth it.”
“That’s great,” I say. I glance from her to Bash. “So… what’s the problem?”
Here, Gracie gives a tiny, theatric wince. “Well…”
Bash grumble-growls again, and Dohrein, still behind Gracie, shifts his wings, the blue streaks on them turning even brighter. Starting to look like a dangerous warning.
“We have a really great crew of hobs and Rakhii,” Gracie points out.