2. Phoebe
2
PHOEBE
V apas doesn’t move, standing in the same place and staring at the closed door. I don’t move either. I’m not sure what to expect. Will he be nice? Apathetic? Or… worse?
When he turns and looks at me, I jerk involuntarily. I don’t mean to but my nerves are wound too tight. He frowns. He has long dark hair bound into strands with metal beads. His tusks are ivory colored. The left one has a ring drilled into the top end which comes up as high as his nose.
He sighs which comes out as a grunt. Shakes his head and then slowly walks over. He extends his hand, holding it in front of me. I stare for a moment, half-expecting him to slap me around.
When nothing happens I close my hand over his and he helps me to my feet. He looks me up and down with a slow, evaluative gaze. My cheeks flush as he studies my body, slowly coming back to my face.
“Heh,” he says, shrugging and shaking his head.
“Heh? What does that mean?”
He doesn’t answer, turning away and walking to the kitchen. He opens cabinets and gets things out while I’m left standing in his living space staring. Before I decide what my next move should be, he has a kettle boiling with water and is pouring two cups of tea. He sets them down on the table, one on each side.
I walk into the kitchen, and despite the apparent evidence to the contrary, I’m still uncertain as to whether or not he’s an ally. It could all be an elaborate ruse. Some trick by the Maulavi to get me to talk or spill secrets. Secrets I don’t have, but they don’t know that and wouldn’t believe me anyway.
The chair scrapes loudly on the stone floor as he pulls it out and takes his seat. He doesn’t even look over. Only picks up his cup, blows on the contents, then takes a sip. He stares silently ahead the entire time.
Frowning, I clench and unclench my hands and then walk over to take the seat opposite. His eyes flicker just enough so that I know he sees me but there’s no other reaction. I pick up my cup and sip.
It’s delightful. Hints of orange and anise blended into a tasty sensation that warms my tongue and throat. As I sip, my tongue is left with a pleasant tingling sensation.
“Hmm, thank you,” I say.
“Heh,” he grunts.
Setting the cup down, I press my hands to the table on either side of it and meet his gaze.
“I know you have more words than that,” I say. “My name is Phoebe.”
He blinks. Sips. Blinks. I wait. Finally he sets the tea down and shakes his head.
“Vapas.”
“I gathered that from the Maulavi. Thank you. For what you did, I mean.”
He frowns as he drops his gaze to the table between us.
“Heh. No,” he says, shaking his head. “No thanks.”
“No? Why?”
He looks up and there is the slightest hint of a fire deep in his eyes.
“We were better,” he says softly. “Should be better.”
My stomach flips and I choke on my own spit. Coughing madly as I try to calm my spasming throat. I look down in embarrassment at my outburst. He isn’t paying any attention though. The way he’s staring into his tea cup I almost wonder if he’s trying to read the future in the leaves or something.
“That sounds… nice,” I say, sipping the tea to ease the burning in my throat from the choking.
“Nice,” he snorts. “My people…” he trails off with a heavy sigh. “We are not what we were.”
We sit in a silence that is less uncomfortable then it was. I’m a guest in his house. An unwanted, probably unwelcome guest, but he isn’t making a thing of it. I’m grateful for that too. This entire mission sucks.
He finishes his tea then sits quietly until I finish mine too. When I set the cup down, he rises, the chair scraping, and takes my cup as well as his. He washes and puts away the dishes then turns and gazes at me.
“I’m sorry, could I have helped?” I ask after a moment of him staring.
It makes me uncomfortable both because he’s staring and because I now feel like an ass for not offering to assist but it was only two cups.
“Heh,” he grunts and shrugs. I stare, waiting for something more. Some indicator or what he is thinking. “Sleep.”
“Sleep?” I ask, not the thing I was expecting him to say but the moment he does, I realize I am tired. It’s been a long, exhausting day. Stress doesn’t sit well and I really could use a good rest. “Right. Oh. Uh. Yeah.”
I rise from the table and look around the home. It’s small and pretty much the same as Kinto’s place. The living space has a couch and two chairs in it, all of which look pretty comfortable. That’s where I slept at Kinto’s and I was fine with it.
“Bed?” he asks.
Butterflies flood my belly. I cross my arms over my chest then realize that makes my breasts stand out even more and quickly drop them. Staring at his face, I’m trying to decide if he’s offering me his bed or propositioning me. His deadpan tone and generally conservatively reserved demeanor make it really hard to figure out.
“Uhm,” I say, looking around. “The uh, the couch over there is fine.”
His frown deepens. He glances over the piece of furniture, making the metal bands that encircle strands of his hair clatter. He shakes his head.
“No.”
“No?”
He returns his gaze up to my eyes and grunts.
“No.”
“What do you mean no?” I ask as my stomach drops.
I take a step back. As if it’s going to do any good. If he wants to hurt me or… worse... there is literally nothing I can do to stop him. He’s fucking huge for one. And who’s going to care? The Maulavi plan to kill me soon anyway. Why would anyone care if he gets some satisfaction from me first?
His mouth turns into a frown, crinkling his forehead as he narrows his eyes. He tilts his head to the side, not taking his eyes off of mine.
“You seemed fluent in lizard, was I mistaken?” he asks.
“Lizard?”
He may look confused but I definitely am. This conversation is so weird. Oh, he must mean Zmaj.
“Yes, I speak Zmaj ,” I say, defiantly emphasizing their proper name. “Lizard is derogatory but I’m sure you know that.”
I have no idea where I’m getting the guts to be so snarky but he doesn’t seem to mind and I’m rolling with it on that alone. He snorts. It makes his wide nose wrinkle which makes me notice his face.
Sure, I saw his face before, but seeing it and noticing it are two different things. At least for me, in this moment, it is. Noticing his face, I see that he’s actually kind of good looking. In a rugged, exotic, alien way.
“Zmaj, fine,” he says, raising and dropping his hands. “You know word ‘no’ then?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Then no.”
“Gah!” I exclaim, throwing my hands in the air with frustration. “’No’ what? You can’t just say ‘no’, it has be… I don’t know. Aimed at something. No what?”
He grunts as he rolls his eyes.
“You bed,” he says, pointing at the ceiling.
“Did you just roll your eyes? Seriously?” I don’t know what has gotten into me. I’m barking and defying him like I’ve gone crazy. But I can’t stop my mouth, which seems to be running on its own agenda. “Are you eight?”
His frown deepens. He shakes his head.
“You go to bed,” he says. “I sleep there. Better?”
The defiance bleeds out, leaving behind nothing but emptiness and the fear that has been my constant companion since I set out on this stupid mission.
A tremor races down my spine then takes up residence. I cross my arms and rub them, trying to hide the fact that I’m shaking. Tears well in my eyes and the pressure of trying not to sob is making my head throb.
He is watching. His lips purse and the deep frown eases, changing into something unreadable. He rocks forward as if he’s going to come closer and I make a noise that sounds like “peep”. Stupidest thing ever, I self-berate, but it happened.
He doesn’t move. I can’t keep my eyes on his. I drop my gaze and turn just enough so that it feels less awkward but at an angle that I can keep an eye on him in my peripheral. He grunts and then steps away.
He goes back to the cabinet. I move out of his way when he comes close but he doesn’t even glance at me. He gets two new mugs out then pulls out what looks like a stoppered vase.
He puts the two mugs on the table, unstoppers the vase, and pours a black looking liquid into them. He replaces the stopper, sets it down, then moves one mug across the table from himself.
“Drink.”
It’s an order, not a request. And I obey. Feeling unsure and reluctant, still I move to the table. He motions with one, large, green hand at the mug. My fingers are numb as they close around the fired clay mug.
He watches with hooded eyes, raising his own mug. He sips then motions his mug in such a way to encourage me to do the same. The smell is unlike anything I’ve ever smelled before. I’m not sure what to make of it, but it comes across as kind of foul.
My hand trembles as I press my lips to the edge of the mug. Slowly tilting back until the liquid enters my mouth. I spit the moment it hits my tongue. It feels like I just put a lit match onto it.
“Gah!” I shout.
Then I realize that I just sprayed Vapas with the liquid and my own spit. He stands there staring as liquid trails down his face and drips off his square chin. He doesn’t speak or move, but he blinks once.
“Oh… shit,” that’s a common word but we humans have hybridized Common and Zmaj. “I’m, shit, I’m sorry.”
He blinks once more, but still doesn’t move or speak. I break the paralysis that has had me locked in place. I run over to the counter and desperately look for a towel or something to clean him and the mess I made. I hear him behind me, turning around at the same time I pull open a drawer. A towel rests inside and I grab it, spinning to face him.
The alcohol is still dripping. His frown makes deep lines around his mouth while his eyes watch me in disbelief. I dab the towel on his chest but I’m so nervous that I’m trembling.
As I pat the towel across his chest he places his hand over mine, stopping me. I lift my eyes back to meet his. He has dark eyes, but inside of them there is a fire burning. His hand is hard with callouses, but warm. My mouth is suddenly dry. So dry that I can’t swallow.
I blink, desperate to moisten my eyes. He doesn’t blink. The pressure of his hand on mine slowly increases, not uncomfortably but strong and definitive. I manage to swallow. The butterflies dancing in my chest tell me to look away. Years of being demure, knowing that many men would take direct eye contact as an invitation, scream for me to drop my eyes. To look anywhere but at him.
I can’t, though. No, I don’t want to. There are wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. Worry lines as my grandma would have called them. Of course he worries. Look at what’s happening to the Urr’ki.
His lips part. I know it’s not this way but for me they split apart slowly. As if this moment is stretching and giving every micro gesture a sudden significance. My heart speeds up, but even that feels as if it’s happening slow. Thump, pause, wait, thump, pause, wait, thump.
My lips tremble. An insane curiosity as to how his lips might taste fills my head. They’re good lips. Full and wide. Wide enough if he leaned in to kiss me it might look as if he was trying to eat me. Get it together Phoebes. Gods above, what is wrong with me?
“Thank you,” he says.
I blink, not moving. The words don’t make sense. I have to replay them in my head before I realize what he actually said. I don’t know what I expected him to say, but it wasn’t that.
His hand slides across mine. A thrill races down my arm, hitting my heart like a shot of adrenaline. I part my lips and a tiny gasp slips out between them. His fingers close on the towel and then he takes it from my grip and time returns to normal.
I’m standing too close. Uncomfortably close. He spreads the towel over his hand then presses it to his face, drying the mess I made. Heat rushes over my chest and onto my cheeks. Feeling awkward and my natural fear of pretty much everything returning, I take a step back and keep backing up until I come up against the counter.
He rubs the towel over his face then lowers it. When he does, he sees that I’ve moved and he freezes. His eyes bore into mine as his deep frown returns. He blinks, his mouth parts, then snaps shut as if he was going to say something then thought better of it.
I cross my arms over my chest, turning to the side so as to avoid having to make direct eye contact. He rumbles. It’s a low, soft sound that doesn’t really qualify as a grumble and I honestly don’t know what to make of it. We stand a few feet apart and I don’t think either one of us knows what to do now. I know I don’t. I startle when he shifts his weight. He grunts in response, shaking his head.
“Sorry,” he says, his voice a deep rumble.
He steps forward, pauses, and takes a long stride to the left before continuing. He puts the towel down on the counter, resting his hands flat on its surface. He leans forward, bowing his head.
“Sleep,” he says at last and my heart painfully skips a beat.
I hadn’t realized how much I was holding on for him to speak. To say something. Or how much I like the sound of his voice.
“Yes,” I agree. “You take the bed. It’s fine.”
“No,” he barks while slapping the counter. I jump backward, heart in my throat. He growls, balling his hands into fists. “No.”
He repeats, calmer, but the tension in the room is through the roof. My eyes are so wide that it’s drying them out. I tremble in fear.
“S-s-so-sorr-sorry,” I stutter through teeth I can’t keep from chattering.
He growls, shaking his head which makes the rings jangle.
“No, gada… no.”
I don’t recognize the word he uses but the way he spits it out I take it for a curse of some kind. Which doesn’t help me to understand what is happening in the slightest. I’m so scared that my muscles have locked up and all I can do is stand here waiting for whatever happens next.
He straightens, squares his shoulders, and unclenches his fists. He turns towards me and if I didn’t know what to expect, what I see on his face goes beyond even that. It looks like, but surely it can’t be, remorse.
Why is he feeling remorse? He’s the one in charge. I was too bold. Whatever happens next, I know that I caused it by running my mouth. By forgetting, if only for the moment, that he isn’t a friend or an ally. He’s my captor.
He raises his hands, palms up towards the ceiling, shaking his head. I don’t know what to do and I don’t think I can speak, which leaves me standing and staring. He waits, clearly expecting something, but I’ve got nothing to give.
“Sorry,” he says, dropping his hands to his side. He watches me close, waiting for something still but I can’t. Terror has me in its freezing grip. “Take bed. Please. You are guest.”
“No,” I say in a tiny squeak of a voice. I clear my throat, finally regaining some control of my body. “Not a guest.”
I need to get away before I say or do something even stupider than I already have. Keeping a wide berth of space between us I circle wide and go to the stairs. I’ll take the bed, if only to get away. I feel his eyes watching as I climb.