Part Two
VEKTAL
My mate, the resonance of my khui, my new reason for existing, has just planted her tiny, strange foot in my chest and kicked. It’s almost as if she does not want to mate.
Her strange, dead eyes are wide with fear, no comforting glow in them. I want to tell her that she’ll be fine. That she’s mine now and I’ll take care of her. That we’ll take down one of the monstrous sa-kohtsk and pull a new khui from its depths so she will no longer suffer.
But I’m puzzled as to why she would hurt herself. I rub my chest where her tiny foot landed. Without her leathers, her body seems even smaller, and she’s soft and ridge-less. She seems to have forgotten this, too, as she gives me an indignant look, then howls with pain and clings to her foot.
I don’t understand her. Maybe her lack of khui is affecting her senses. “I will not harm you,” I say to her slowly, because she looks terrified. “You are my mate, now.”
“Tht hrt dmmt!”
“Let me see your foot,” I demand. If she has no khui, she probably does not heal as she should, either. When she continues to give me a frightened look, I reach forward and place my hand on her ankle.
She bellows something and thrashes at me again. Her hand curls into a fist, and she smacks it into my face, knocking my lip against my teeth. A flash of pain shoots through my mouth, and I snarl.
She immediately goes quiet, flinching backward, her hands raised to shield herself.
I am sickened at her reaction.
This woman, this small creature who has half the stature of a sa-khui is my mate. How can she possibly think I would harm her? But she is cringing back even now, as if expecting a blow to fall. Rage fills me, because this is not a normal response.
Someone has hurt my mate in the past.
I reach forward and turn her pale face toward me. She fights, but her eyes close again, and she begins to tremble. I gaze at her small, flat features. Her skin tone is regular, except for mottled bruising along one side. There is the evidence I suspected.
“Who did this to you?” I ask.
She trembles, but she doesn’t answer me. She’s not mute. She makes sounds, and I wonder if she hit her head. Or perhaps her people speak the nonsensical language of hard syllables she’s been filling my ears with. It sounds nothing like my language.
But then again, she is nothing like one of the sa-khui. I should not expect similarities.
I’m fascinated by her, though. The men of my tribe say that there is no pleasure like the taste of a resonance mate on your lips, and they’re right. Burying my face between her legs was one of the truest pleasures I have ever felt, and I want to feel it again.
It’s clear from her reaction and the way she cringes away that I’m the only one feeling this way, though. I’m mystified by her reaction, but it must be her lack of khui. She doesn’t feel the resonance like I do.
She doesn’t feel the teeth-aching need to claim. She doesn’t feel the hollowness of a lonely spirit. How can she? There is no khui inside her to resonate.
Clearly the gods have sent her to me so I might learn patience. I smile ruefully. It is not my strongest trait. “Very well, little one,” I say to her and brush my fingers over her strange, smooth skin. “You and I shall learn patience together.”
“Dnt nnerstnd yew.”
Her words trip and tumble off of her agile mouth. I notice her fangs are gone, and my heart stills in my breast, my khui ceasing its resonance. Despite her slapping touch, I peel her lips back to examine her teeth. Are they broken?
But no, it appears as if her small teeth are just that: whole and not nearly as large as my own front tusks. Strange creature.
I release her, and she slaps my hands away, her strange eyes narrowing. “Fckoffwth tht.”
Her body is different than that of a sa-khui. She’s soft and hairless in most places, and I haven’t seen a tail. And then there’s that strange nipple between her legs. I find it arousing because it makes me think of how she tastes. I want her on my tongue again. Even now, my mouth waters in remembrance, and my khui resonates in my chest.
So I just sit back and watch her, to see what she will do next.
She gathers her strange leathers around her, determined to cover her small, soft body. Is she cold? My protective instinct rises, and I turn to the fire, feeding more of the stored wood to it. I will need to chop wood and refill the stores here for the next hunter, but it’s a task I will gladly do for my mate. I want her to be warm and comfortable.
Once I build up the fire, she moves closer to it and puts her hands near the flames. They look . . . strange. “You have five fingers,” I tell her and hold my own hand up. I have four. It is yet another difference between us. I’m fascinated and a little revolted by those extra fingers.
Her hand touches her chest. “Shhheorshie.” She pats her breast again and looks at me. “Haim sheorshie.”
Is there something wrong with her chest now? Is she trying to tell me her khui is gone? It’s as obvious as her dull white eyes. “Yes, I know,” I tell her. “Fear not. We will perform the ceremony when we return home to the tribe.”
“Shhheorshie,”she says, patting her breast again, and then reaches out and pats my chest. She looks at me expectantly.
Is she asking about my resonance? I press her small hand to my chest so she can feel my khui vibrate. She jerks away, startled, and looks up at me with wide eyes. “Whtws tht? Thtcher naym?”
“Resonance,” I explain to her, and my khui hums at her touch.
She looks at me with such shock that I start to feel a sense of unease. When she puts her hand on my chest again and I resonate, she pulls her hand away so quickly that it’s as if she’s touched something ice cold.
“Hiee cnt pru nownsce tht,”she tells me and presses her hand to my chest again, then back to hers. “Sheeorshie.”
“Sheeorshie,” I echo.
Her face brightens. “Ys!” She gives her chest a happy pat. “Shrsie!”
It’s not her trying to tell me about her khui or her lack of resonance. It’s her name.
She touches her chest again and looks at me expectantly.
Baffled, I touch my own chest. “Vektal.”
Her jaw juts, and she tries to say my name properly. It comes out more as “Huptal.” She’s unable to make the swallowed first syllable properly. It’s all right. It’s a start.
“Huptal,” she says happily and pats her shoulders again. “Shorshie.”
Her own name is garbled syllables, but I try to pronounce it to make her happy. Shorshie she is.
And Shorshie is a mystery to me. She has no tail, no fur. She wears strange leathers and walks the dangerous hunting lands with no weapons. She’s weak and soft and has no khui, and she does not speak a word of proper language.
It makes no sense. How can Shorshie be here? Every creature has a khui. My people, the sa-khui, are the only intelligent people in the world. There are metlaks, but they are covered in hair and no smarter than rocks. They have not yet mastered fire.
Shorshie is smart. She doesn’t flinch away from the fire like a metlak. She recognizes it. And she is wearing cured leather. Her boots are finer than any I have seen. Shorshie has come from a people, from somewhere.
But where? I can’t ask her. We can barely communicate.
And then it occurs to me that . . . she is not resonating. She doesn’t feel what I do, because she has no khui. Maybe she never has.
I’m hit with a sense of loss so strong it makes me bare my teeth. This . . . this cannot happen. How is it that she cannot resonate to me? That we are not connected? It is as if I have found my other half after so long…and she is dead to me. The thought chokes me. To lack a khui is a death sentence. To see Shorshie so vibrant and so doomed makes my soul ache.
But no. She is my mate. My other half. I’ll do whatever is necessary to keep her.
GEORGIE
He’s got fire. That’s a big plus in my book. I rub my hands close to the flames and bask in its warmth. It’s driving away the chill from the outside. The wind is whistling through the door flap, and I can see it’s getting dark outside, but I’m decently warm in this cave as long as I’m near the fire. Guiltily, I think of Liz and Kira and the others. Surely they can stay warm by huddling together, can’t they?
I look up as Vektal begins to pace in the small cave. He looks troubled, and that makes me feel edgy. It’s like I’ve done something wrong, and I’ve no clue what. He keeps purring at me, so I thought he was happy? But I guess not.
My stomach growls, and I press a hand to it. Time for a seaweed bar. I check the pockets of my stolen jumpsuit, but I don’t find anything and begin to panic. Now I’ve lost my food and my weapon. The only things I’ve got left are the boots that pinch my feet and the jumpsuit. Man, I am shitty at this exploring thing. Ugh.
He moves and kneels next to me, and I instinctively shrink back. I give Vektal a wary look. His mouth felt good on me a short time ago, but I know what he wants and I’m leery of him standing too close.
But he only gestures at my stomach. “Kuuuusk?” There are a wealth of tones in that word that I won’t be able to emulate. It’s like he’s doing some weird vibrating thing in the back of his throat.
“Hungry,” I say to him and pat my stomach. Then I mime eating.
He points at my teeth and asks another question. Right. Something about them bothers him. I bare them to show him they’re fine, and he bares his own in response to me.
Fangs. Of course he’s got fangs. His canines are three times the size of mine, and they look brutal. No wonder he’s mystified by my short, blunt teeth. “Hope those are for chewing vegetables,” I tell him brightly.
He pulls off a fur cape and boy, am I glad to see that it’s clothing and not part of him. I can handle the horns, I think. But I’m glad that the shaggy fur isn’t his. Looking at him again, I see that a lot of his bulk might be clothing. That’s good. There’s no disguising that he’s seven feet tall, though.
I watch as he undresses, wary. “I hope you didn’t mistake my stomach growling for nookie-time.”
The fur cape goes to the floor of the cave, and my eyes open wide at the sight of his clothing underneath. I think it’s leather, and it’s all a similar soft bluish-gray shade that makes me think of a cloudy day. It also doesn’t look very warm. His arms are bare, and his chest is covered by a vest that seems to be made entirely of pockets and laces. It holds a few wicked-looking bone knives strapped to his chest. He’s got a lot of flesh exposed despite the blizzard raging outside, and I wonder just how warm that stupid cape is.
And if I can steal it.
“Probably a bad idea, Georgie,” I tell myself. “This guy’s your only buddy at the moment.”
Even if he does want to just lick my pussy. I clamp my thighs together tightly at the memory and try not to blush. I go back to ogling the alien. His arms are bare and show a crazy amount of corded muscle. They’re enormous and intimidating, and I imagine the pectorals under the leather vest are equally as staggering.
He pulls a strap from over one shoulder, and I see that in addition to the myriad buckles and pouches, he’s got a bag slung across his chest. My stomach growls again. He might have food.
Real food. Not seaweed bars.
My mouth waters, and I clasp my hands together tightly to keep from reaching for him. I’ve never been so hungry in my life. He opens his satchel and produces a bladder of some kind that must be a water skin along with a leather-wrapped package. He hands it to me, and I unwrap it. There in the wrappings are a few thick bars of what looks like meat mixed with an oatmeal of some kind. Travel rations. Has to be. I tremble and look up at him. “Is this for me?”
“Kuuus-kah,” he says in that weird language of his, and he mimes breaking off a piece and eating it.
I could kiss him right now, fangs and all. “Thank you,” I say and break off a large piece. I don’t care if I seem greedy or not. I’m starving. I cram the entire piece into my mouth and begin to chew.
Right away, I can tell it’s a mistake.
The taste is . . . well, awful is the kindest word I can think of. It’s like I’ve bitten into a package of jalapeno peppers mixed with a vile, mealy texture. The spices are so strong that my nose and eyes immediately water. I cough, desperately trying to swallow the mouthful I’ve got, but it’s burning my tongue. I end up choking and spitting out half the food into my hand, all the while the alien looks on curiously.
It’s brutal. I gag and cough for a moment more, until he pushes the skin into my hand and barks out a short word. I cautiously take a sip, afraid of what it’ll taste like. To my relief, the water is cool and refreshing, and has a masked hint of citrus to the taste. I guzzle it with relief, and my choked coughing slowly abates.
I push the dried food back to him and shake my head. Even if I wanted to eat it—and oh, do I want to—I can’t. Just the thought of putting even a small piece into my mouth makes my jaw clench up. My stomach issues a miserable protest.
The alien is mystified by my rejection of the food. He examines my mouth again and tries to touch my tongue. I brush his questioning hand aside. “The problem isn’t my mouth, it’s your food.”
He says something in his gibberish language and gestures at my bruises. Oh. He thinks I’m hurt and that’s why I can’t eat. I shake my head. “I’m fine. Really.”
The alien—Vektal—gazes at me curiously.
“I don’t suppose there’s a nice city full of friendly aliens a short distance away?” I ask. The small cave’s getting colder, and the air whistles, so I hitch my jacket a bit closer to my body.
Vektal picks up his fur cape and drapes it over my shoulders, talking to me in that weird rumbly language.
“Thanks,” I say and hug it closer. He’s not putting clothes on, so the cold must not be bothering him as much. I eye him as he bends over and feeds another log to the fire.
He’s got a tail. Okay. Lots of things have tails. That’s not so weird. I’m trying not to get weirded out by him, but he’s just so . . . different. His horns, for one. The hand that places another piece of wood on the fire has only four fingers. The boots on his feet look like a soft leather but are shaped extremely wide at the toes, so I can only wonder what’s going on in there.
Oh, and he’s a smoky gray-blue. Can’t forget that part. And he purrs. So yeah, other than being bipedal, maybe he’s not much like me after all.
“Sheorshie,” he says, mangling my name. He repeats it and then gives me a frown and a shake of his braided black hair. “Sheorshie Vektal,” he says again, then points at his eye and then shakes his head.
“I don’t know what you’re trying to say to me,” I tell him. “That I’m not like you? I know I’m not.” I point at his food. “I wish to God I could eat this, but I can’t.” My eyes brim with exhausted tears. Everything feels as if it’s crashing down on me. “You have no idea how much my life has sucked in the last two weeks.”
He says something in a softer voice and wipes away the tear that spills down my cheek. I notice his skin feels like suede or chamois. It’s . . . nice. It feels friendly even if everything else in the world is all fucked up.
Vektal tugs the cloak down tighter on me. He pats the furs by the fire and says something else. My guess is that it’s something akin to ‘rest here’ because he pats the furs again and waits. I lie down. I’m warm and snuggled in furs and for the first time in what feels like forever, I don’t feel like I’m in imminent danger. All this alien wants is oral sex.
The thought makes me giggle inwardly, and I’m smiling as I fall asleep.
???
I wake up later, feeling better than I have in a long, long time. I’m warm and under a thick blanket, and I’m cuddled up against a big, hard form that’s warmer than any heating pad. My fingers move over the surface. It feels like suede over bone, and I realize after I hear the soft purring begin that I’m pressed up against Vektal’s chest.
It’s . . . not the worst place in the world to be. I mean, if I have my choice between the old cargo bay, alone in the snow, or snuggled next to the pussy-loving alien, I’m going to go with option number three.
I debate pretending to remain asleep, but there’s something big and hard prodding into my stomach that tells me that Vektal’s conscious, acutely aware of my presence, and far more generously equipped than any guy I’ve ever met.
I sit up, tugging the blankets around me. My breath fogs in the air, and I glance around the cave. Weak sunlight is pouring in through the door flap, and the fire has gone out. It’s bitterly cold unless I’m pressed next to Vektal, and the urge to crawl back against him and huddle for warmth is real and strong.
But he sits up and begins to adjust his clothing. “Vy droskh,” he tells me. I don’t know if that’s ‘good morning’ or ‘damn it’s cold’ or what. He gets up, and as he does, my stomach rumbles again.
Vektal squints at me.
“I know,” I say. “Trust me, I know.” It’s embarrassing for me, too.
He begins to unwrap the food from last night, but I make a face and shake my head. I mime that it burns my tongue. He chuckles and then makes a gesture that looks like a rocking baby, which puzzles me. I’m not following this conversation at all.
“Hungry,” I say. I rub my stomach and mime eating something. “Food?” Every inch of me feels like a mooch for finding a guy and then demanding he feed me, but ‘food’ is easier to mime than ‘if you’d give me a nice weapon I’d catch my own breakfast.’ For right now, we have to proceed in baby steps.
Vektal nods and begins to put on the gear he discarded overnight. He’s bare-chested this morning, and his pectorals are just as grimly fascinating as I suspected they would be. They’re like slabs of cold iron over his smoky blue chest. I remember the warm, suede-feel of his skin. He sure was nice to rub up against. I watch him dress, intrigued by the differences in our bodies. Over certain spots on his body, he has knobby ridges. They trail along the back of each arm to his elbow. The ridges glide down the center of his chest and smooth out somewhere between his pectorals and his navel. And his thighs have the bumpy, textured ridges, too. I wonder what purpose they’re for. They decorate his brow, too, and right down his nose.
He’s in a talky mood this morning, too. He holds a one-sided conversation with me as he slings his vest back over his chest and begins to tie his knives and blades back to their proper spots. I want to ask for one, but I don’t know his culture. Maybe it’s taboo for him to give me one and I’d insult him by asking. Right now I’m wary of pissing him off, because he’s the only lifeline I’ve got. I watch my breath fog in the air again as he continues talking, and I think of the girls at the ship, huddled together.
I hope they’re okay. God, I hope they’re okay. I need to get back to them today so they don’t worry. I can tell them what I’ve found . . .
Which, really, isn’t much. I’ve found face-eating fish that have stalks that look like bamboo. I’ve found a warm stream (full of the aforementioned face-eating fish), and I’ve found an alien that likes to eat pussy as a greeting.
All three things won’t help us get home. I haven’t found a city. I haven’t found another ship. I sure haven’t found anyone that speaks English. And to make matters worse, I’ve lost our only weapon. I’m not doing so hot at this save-the-day thing.
Vektal finishes tying his bags and pouches and then slips on boots. I sneak a peek at his toes just to satisfy my curiosity. Three large, splayed toes and a bony heel that was probably a fourth toe at some point in evolution. I probably wouldn’t be able to wear his boots either, and the thought depresses me as I shove my feet back into my uncomfortable stolen boots.
I stand and spots swim before my eyes. I weave, only to be pulled against a hard chest. He murmurs something in my ear and offers the food again, but I push it away. I’m not being picky. I cannot physically eat the stuff. I accept the water he pushes into my hand, and I drink it, but it’s not going to last me. Maybe I can convince Vektal to go back to where he captured me so I can hunt for my seaweed bars. At this point, I’m so hungry I’ll eat them even if they’ve turned into a block of ice overnight.
He leads me out of the cave, watching me as I follow him. A new powder has fallen overnight, and I look at the deeper snow with despair. So much for finding my old supplies.
Vektal gestures at his shoulders, bare of any sort of cloak since I’m wearing it. He kneels and indicates that I should climb onto his back and put my arms around his neck, piggy-back style. Well, this is humiliating. But I’m so tired and weak that I don’t protest. I put my arms around him and cling to his back, wrapping my legs around his waist. He pats one of the arms around his neck, says something soothing, and then he starts racing down the side of the mountain.
I’m stunned for a moment at how fast he is. He’s unaffected by the snow, his boots driving through the powder as if it’s nothing. He burns like a furnace inside, too, his skin so warm to the touch that the parts touching him are toasty warm and the parts exposed to the wind are like sticking a hand in a bucket of ice. It makes me burrow down even closer to his body once I realize he doesn’t need the cape at all. He’s just fine in this wintry landscape without it. So I push my head against his neck and press my cold face into his warm hair. He smells good, too.
Great, now I’ve got Stockholm syndrome.
He pushes down the mountainside, moving down the steep slopes as if they’re nothing. We pass through another copse of trees, and I realize for the first time that we’re heading the wrong way from the crash site. I haven’t been paying attention, dazed from hunger and cold. But this is wrong. Everyone up there is waiting for me, shivering and starving. I can’t leave them.
“Wait,” I say, tapping on his shoulder. “Vektal, wait!”
He pauses, and as he does, I slide off his back. I shiver immediately at the bitter cold, but I make him turn so I can point up the hill, back to the direction that I came. “We have to go that way and rescue the others.”
He shakes his head and points down the hill. In the direction he’s pointing, I can see thick trees and more greenery. He wants to go down the mountain.
But I can’t leave everyone behind. I insistently point back up. “Please. I need to go up there. There are more people. More women. They’re hungry and cold and don’t have anything.”
Vektal shakes his shaggy head and mimes eating. Then he points at the forest below us, down the snowy slopes.
I waver. Do I let him take me farther away to eat? Or do we immediately go up to the others and still starve? I hesitate. They probably already think something’s happened to me.
My stomach growls again. Vektal gives me an exasperated look. He says the food word again. “Kuuusk.”
I bite my lip, thinking. I glance back at the mountain. Everything in me says I need to insist. But I’m feeling so weak and starved. I can convince him to go back later, can’t I? Once I’ve gotten something to eat?
And won’t it be better to show up not empty handed?
With a heavy sigh, I look back at him. His glowing blue eyes seem to be burning holes into me. “Kusk then up the hill, okay? Let’s get enough kuusk for everyone.”
Maybe a belly full of food will swallow my guilt.
???
VEKTAL
When my mate climbs atop my back again and wraps her small, soft limbs around me, I have to fight my pleasure. She’s cold and hungry and upset over something. The need to please her eats at my insides. I’ll bring down a meal for her so she can gorge and regain her strength. Right now, her pale skin is even paler, and I worry she’ll sicken and be too weak to accept a khui.
I have plans for my sweet mate. Whether she likes it or not, she’s going to take a khui. I’m not about to lose her now that I’ve found her.
The valley blossoms with teeming wildlife. I can tell from my mate’s easy grip on my neck that she doesn’t see the skulking snow-cats in the distance or the form of the sickle-beak hiding behind a nearby tree. My hunter’s gaze picks them out, and I search for a safe spot in which I can leave my mate without worry for a short time. She’s too weak to hunt for her own food or to defend herself if something should attack.
There’s a large boulder I can use for a lookout on the far side of the narrow valley, and I head there, pushing through the ever-deepening snow. Though the weather doesn’t bother me, my mate’s shivering increases the longer we are out. She won’t be able to travel far unless I get her something warmer to wear. So, food first, then skins so I may dress my soft, fragile Shorshie.
I’ll protect her with my life if I must.
The need to claim her resonates in my chest, my khui reminding me that I have found my mate and not yet claimed her. I pat my chest as if to tell it I know. I know she is mine. Communicating with her is difficult, and she is frightened and weak. Once she is strong and we can share more words, she will see what I have been trying to tell her. Then she will spread those soft, pink thighs for me again, and I will have her on my tongue. I will bury my cock inside her and feel the resonance reverberate between both of us.
My cock grows hard at the thought, and so I force it away.
Once I get to the boulder, I gently set Shorshie down. She climbs up on the rock when I gesture to it. “Stay here,” I tell her.
Of course, she tries to follow me.
I gesture that she should stay again, and she gives me a panicky look. “Sheorshie Vektal?”
“I’m not leaving you, sweet resonance,” I tell her, brushing a finger over her pale cheek. “It’s dangerous.” I point at the lurking creatures that are even now watching us. I point out the scythe-beak and then the snow cats. I even point out a lurking quill-bundled rodent that will be her meal. It takes a few moments for her to recognize the creatures hiding in plain view, blending amidst the snow. When she sees them, though, her eyes go wide, and she gives me another frightened look.
“You will stay here,” I tell her. “I’ll hunt something for you to eat.”
She babbles something in her weird language. “Hly sht thse thngs r hugednt leev me!”
“It will be fine,” I sooth. I bundle the cape tighter around her small shoulders. She responds by reaching for one of my knives, a question in her eyes. I nod and hand her a bone-handled one that I created myself. Now she has protection.
It’s clear she feels better with it in her hand. She crouches down on the rock and nods at me, gripping the knife. I brush my fingers over her cold, hairless skin again and then pull my sling from my pack. I keep a few smooth stones at hand and put one in the pouch, then whirl the sling through the air, taking aim. My arms flex as I let the stone fly, and I’m pleased to see that the rodent flops to the ground, staggered.
I approach it before it can recover and slice its throat with a motion of my knife. Then, I cut a slit in the neck to drain the blood and another in the belly to remove the offal. I leave the heart and other tasty bits for my mate, then bring the entire thing back to her. I’m leaving a trail for the snow cats to follow, but they won’t attack as long as they scent me. Their memories are long, and they don’t like the taste of sa-khui flesh. We are a bitter meal.
I return with my prize and display it to my shivering mate.
She wrinkles her nose and gives me a confused look.
“Not familiar with quilled beasts, are you?” I say, because it feels good to talk to her. I lay the kill down on the cold stone she’s crouching upon and notice she flinches backward. “It’s dead, sweet resonance. Look, I have saved you the choicest parts.” I pull open the belly flap and reveal the heart and liver. They’re still warm, though they’ll cool fast in this weather and won’t taste nearly as good. “Just avoid the quills in the fur. We’ll get you something larger for a cloak. There are furred dvisti in this area that will make a fine meal.”
Shorshie stares at the kill blankly. Then she points at it. “Yewspectmiteweet thet?”
Is she not familiar with this food? She ate the meal bar easily enough. I pull the heart out and hold it to her lips. “Here. Taste.”
She nearly falls off the rock in her haste to move backward. “Ohmigodfckno!” A moment later, she points at the dripping delicacy held between my fingers. “Fckincookthtshit!”
I tilt my head at her. “What is it? What are you saying?”
She mimes a gesture, holding her hands out like she did over the fire. Then she points at the food. “Fiiiiir,” she tells me. “Cookhit.”
This time my lip curls. “You want to burn the food? Do you not understand what this is?” I toss the heart into my mouth and chew to show her. Flavorful blood bursts across my tongue, hot and sweet.
Her face crumples, and she gags. Her hand goes up, and she gestures for me to put it away. “Hmigod.Grss.”
“Eat,” I tell her sternly. She’s too weak to be picky about her food. “I’ll burn it for you later if you like, but you must eat now.” I slice another thick portion of the creature’s flank off and hand her the meat. I force her small fingers to close around it, ignoring the fact that she makes that gagging noise again. “Eat so you have strength for the rest of the day.”
She shakes her head.
I take a bite and show her, then insist she eat as well. Her stomach growls, and she gets a pained look on her face. “Hopeslikesushi.” Shorshie makes another face and then takes a bite, grimacing the entire time.
I’m pleased. She’s not, but at least I’m getting food into her. She doesn’t like the tasty organs, then. I eat them, ignoring her little sounds of distress, because a good hunter does not waste meat. I carve more tasty tidbits and feed them to her, and she protests the entire time, but at least her belly is filling. She drinks all of my water and then motions that she’s still thirsty.
I nod. One thing at a time. Caring for Shorshie in such a dangerous territory is something that must be handled carefully. The last thing I want is for her to accidentally run into a snow cat near its den . . . or worse, a pack of hunting metlaks. I must carefully guard her and not let her out of my sight. It will mean slow hunting and an even slower return to the tribal caves, but I am prepared to do whatever it takes.
“Come,” I tell Shorshie, hanging my kill from my belt so the meat can freeze in the chill weather. That will keep it until later. I offer her a hand so she can get down off the rock.
She climbs back onto my back, and I realize again just how small and fragile she is. I can carry her as if she weighs nothing. This is not good. Even the daintiest of my tribes-mates could crush her like a twig. It rouses my protective instinct, and I fight the urge to snarl at the thought.
Shorshie will be safe, no matter the cost.
We trek through the snow for some time, and I’m pleased to see that she’s quiet, observing the world around her. She doesn’t call attention to us. She doesn’t complain or demand more things in her strange language. She doesn’t ask questions when I break a tree limb from a nearby sapling and backtrack, sweeping it over our prints to hide our trail. She’s a silent observer.
But I still worry she does not even know the basics of how to fend for herself. Her request for more fire lingers in the back of my mind and worries me. I find an unfrozen stream, heated by the ground itself. It smells of rotten things, but the taste will be pleasant enough and the heat will be nice on weary muscles. It’s also a test to see how much my Shorshie knows. There are things that even the smallest of kits know about the wilds that I worry she does not.
Sure enough, she trots trustingly toward the stream, getting far too close. So much for my test. I grab her by the arm before she can step near the bank, and she hisses in pain.
I’m instantly abashed at my own strength. “Shorshie?” If I’ve hurt my mate, I will be sick with self-loathing. My khui seems to recoil in agreement.
“Sokay,”she says, breathing heavy. She winces and flexes her wrist. “Hrtfrmcrash.”
I take her small hand in mine, and she trustingly lets me examine her. She is mottled with bruises on her arm, the flesh swollen. She is hurt, and I never even realized. I am furious with myself for missing something so obvious. “I am sorry, my Shorshie. I will not be so careless again.”
I lead her away from the stream and look around for something to bind her wrist. I pat my clothing, looking for loose fabric, but she laughs and shakes her head. She jabbers something else at me and points at the water, indicating she’d rather drink than fuss with her wrist.
All right, then. I can show her how to drink. I glance around and find a broken stick at the base of a tree. I pick it up and indicate she should observe me. Then, I get as close as I dare and toss it into the water.
For a long moment, there is nothing. Then, the water boils with activity. I watch Shorshie gasp as the mud-dwelling fang-fish attack. Her surprise is chilling to me. The land is not hospitable many months out of the year, but even the smallest kits know that the foul-smelling warm streams are crowded with dangerous creatures. A fang-fish can strip the flesh from a full-grown dvisti in a matter of moments. Shorshie would have been dead before I’d blinked.
The thought makes me pull her closer to me. She trembles and pushes closer, terrified.
“Watch,” I tell her.
“Watch,” she agrees, looking up at me with huge, white-rimmed eyes that do not sing with khui-color. It reminds me of her vulnerability. Her fragility. This must be corrected, and soon.
I pull out my traveling pouch. No hunter leaves the tribal caves without one, and in it I have several of the red snow-berries that are so plentiful. I grip two of them, smash them between my fingers, mix the juice with a handful of packed snow at my feet, and then lob the entire thing into the current of the stream. Then I look at Shorshie again. “Watch.”
She watches, her face intent. I see her surprise when the water begins to flick and the fang-fish swim upstream, fleeing the waters and the berry-taint they hate so much. “They do not like the juice,” I tell her. “They will not return here until the moons go down once more. Now we can drink.”
She looks at me curiously, and so I show her by moving toward the water. I dip my waterskin in and fill it, then indicate that she can drink the water directly from the stream.
“Sokay?”she asks cautiously. “Noh mnsters?”
I nod to whatever nonsense she’s saying and drink again, then wash my face in a cupped handful of water.
That gets her attention. “Wash?” she asks, plucking at my vest. I see she’s now clutching my bone knife in her hand, no doubt frightened of the fang-fish. But her gaze is on my face, and she mimes my gesture from a moment ago. “Wash?”
“Yes, you can clean yourself,” I say, taking the knife away from her before she can hurt herself. I hand her a few more of the berries, instead. In addition to being a taste the stream-dwelling fish dislike, they make a fine soap. I indicate that she can lather with them, and she looks excited.
“Vektal wash?” she asks, then speaks another nonsense stream of syllables before repeating the words and miming bathing. “Vektal wash?”
“Are you afraid to get into the stream alone, my resonance?” I tease. “Shall I stand upstream so the fang-fish devour my carcass before yours?”
She gives her head a tiny shake indicating she doesn’t understand, but there’s an excited smile on her face. “Wash?” she asks again.
I nod and begin to remove my leathers. I’ll wash my mate gladly. I watch her graceful form as she undresses, stripping out of her own strange leathers. For the first time I realize they’re covered in stains, and they reek of offal. I’ve been so enamored of Shorshie that I haven’t paid the slightest bit of attention to the fact that she’s dirty. No wonder she’s so excited at the thought of washing.
My resonance mate is chattering up a storm, shivering and rubbing her arms as she gets naked. Like her hand, her tiny feet have too many toes and are oddly shaped, but I don’t point this out. I love every ounce of her strange body, even if she is furless and tailless. My khui starts to resonate with pleasure at the sight of her, and I finish stripping off my leathers and then wade into the water.
“Hoboy,”she breathes, still standing on the bank. She’s staring at my groin. Pleased at her attention, I stretch and rub a hand over my stomach. My cock grows hard at her stare, and my body surges with resonance. Is this Shorshie’s way of encouraging mating?
“Come to me, then, my mate.” I gesture her forward. “I will fill all your needs.”
GEORGIE
‘Hung like a horse’ really never had much of a meaning until now.
I try not to stare, and fail.
I can handle fangs. The tail. The suede-like bluish-gray skin. Heck. I’m cool with the horns that curl around his head like a badass crown of some kind.
And I tell myself that I should realize that a dude who’s seven feet tall will have an enormous cock. It’s size appropriate. I’m almost prepared for that, though the sight of it growing erect still makes my thighs clamp together in trepidation.
I’m not prepared for ridges.
He’s got freaking ridges on his cock.
Just like the upraised texture along his chest, his brows, and his arms, he’s got the bumpy, knotty ridges along the top of his cock. His very big, very thick cock. In addition to those ridges, he has an additional one that almost looks like another horn, except it’s blunted at the tip instead of sharp. Small miracle, that. So, okay. He’s got a textured, huge cock with a bony, protruding knob an inch or so above it.
I feel like there’s an alien bingo card somewhere that just got checked off. Horns? Check. Tail? Check. Crazy-ass cock? Check check check.
And since I’m staring, he’s giving me heated looks with those glowing blue eyes of his. It’s like he’s daring me to touch him.
And . . . okay. I’m a little curious about what all that equipment would feel like on a girl, but I’m more interested in bathing than playing hide the sausage. I eye the water he’s now thigh-deep in, and he crosses his big arms over his chest.
Right. My turn. I’m still scared of the fish from earlier, but if he’s in the water, I assume it’s safe. I move closer to where he’s at, though, just in case. And I am shivering with cold, so I need to either get in the damn water with him or re-dress.
I look at my filthy clothing and decide to get in the water. I can still smell blood and the mess from the hold on me, and I desperately want to get clean. So I take a leap of faith and get into the water.
It smells like rotten eggs, which I’ve heard is what underground hot springs smell like. I don’t care. The water’s warm like a bath, and considering that it’s snowy and bitterly cold, I love it. I moan as it hits my limbs and then I sink deeper, trying to submerge my entire body into the scalding water.
It feels amazing. Right now I could kiss Vektal for bringing me here, scary fish and all. I splash water over my limbs, rubbing at them to get rid of the nasty smells of the last ten days of captivity.
Vektal moves next to me in the water. He says something, then hands me more berries. He motions that I should squeeze them and then rub the juice on me. And maybe I don’t move fast enough for him, because he takes the berries from my hand and squeezes the juice onto my shoulders. Then his big hands start rubbing it into my skin.
I stiffen at first, but his touch is very matter-of-fact. It’s like he realizes I just want to get clean and won’t monkey around, despite the enormous erection he’s sporting that says otherwise. And it’s kind of . . . sweet, I guess. He’s not touching me to be a creep. He’s touching me because he wants to show me how to use the soap. I begin rubbing the strange, fruity-smelling lather over my arms and legs, and when he scoops a handful off my shoulder and begins to wash my hair for me, I moan with pleasure.
Being clean has never felt so amazing.
I hear him inhale sharply. Hear the vibrating purr start in his chest again. He murmurs something, voice thick, but all he does is wash my hair. No demanding touches. No insisting of anything. Just pleasure in touching me. In pleasing me.
Actually, other than the fact that he startled the hell out of me with the oral sex thing, he’s been kinda sweet. Everything he’s done has been designed to please me and give me pleasure. I digest that small bit of information. Maybe it’s the Stockholm syndrome talking. Maybe it’s the fact that with Vektal, I’ve felt safe. Safer than I have in the last two weeks. But I don’t mind his touch. In fact, I kind of like it, probably a lot more than I should.
I can’t look at him while I’m—we’re—bathing. My cheeks feel hot, because every so often, he leans in closer and prods me with that enormous cock of his, and it makes me think of dirty things. Of his mouth on me. The suede-like feel of his skin against mine. His warmth. His intriguing scent.
“Shorshie,” he murmurs, his hands caressing my scalp.
“Gee-or-gee,” I correct him. There must not be any g sounds in his language, because he slurs them.
“Shorgee,” he tries.
“Gee,” I prompt.
“Shhhzhee—” he begins, then stops and tries again. “Corgee.”
I giggle. Corgi? Not quite. I turn around and point at my mouth to show him how to move his tongue. “Georgie.”
His fingers brush over my lips in a tender caress. “Zheorzhe.” Then, he tries again. “Geeeeorgie.” His g is practically purred.
“Very good,” I say, my voice soft. I’ve just now realized that I’m practically pressed up against him and I’m naked.
“Georgie,” he repeats, purring my name again. Then he takes my hand and places it over his chest, where he rumbles like a cat. “Georgie sa-akh Vektal.”
The way he says it, with my hand clasped against his heart, makes me think it has a bigger meaning than I’d like to imagine. His gaze is intense, as if he’s waiting for me to respond.
He’s an alien. I remind myself of that, even as it occurs to me that I can convince him to help me—help us—escape the other aliens. The captors that want to sell us.
This has to be a multi-layered plan, I figure. Vektal’s planet is cold as hell and, judging from his gear, probably isn’t past the Stone Age. But I refuse to give up hope of a way back home. I just know it’s not going to happen with the little green men or the ball-headed aliens. They think we’re cattle.
Vektal’s my best bet.
Maybe I’m using him a little when I rub my fingers on his chest. They’re cold in the frigid, snowy air, and my nipples are hard. I rub up against him deliberately, letting him feel my body. I lick my lips and then look up into those alien, glowing blue eyes.
And I point at the mountainside in the distance, where I know that so many women (half in pods) are waiting for rescue while I play bubble bath with a native. “Take me up the side of the mountain?”
He caresses my face, a question in his gaze. “Moun. . .tain?”
“Yes,” I say and trace my fingers over his skin. “Up there.”
His brows draw together, and he gives a shake of his head indicating that no, he’s not taking me there.
All right then, time to pull out the big guns. “Vektal,” I murmur. “Do you know how to kiss?”
The alien’s blank expression tells me he has no clue what I’m saying. Of course he doesn’t. So I put a hand to the back of his neck and pull him closer to me. He’s warm, and I rather like the feel of him blocking out the chilly wind. “Kiss?” I say again, and then I lean in and brush my lips against his.
The look on his face is stunned. It’s like it never occurred to him that people would put their mouths on each other. I stifle the giggle threatening to erupt and drag a finger down the front of his chest. “I can show you more things . . . if you take me up the mountain.”
I know I’m playing with fire. Offering him sexual favors in exchange for rescue probably isn’t the greatest plan, but I’m working with the weapons I have. As long as he’s fascinated by me, I can use that. It’s mercenary, but people’s lives are at stake. If I have to kiss an alien and flirt with him to get a rescue to my friends, I will.
It’s not exactly a hardship, I have to admit. I’m still thinking about his mouth on my skin from last night. The way he licked me until I came. And the way he is staring at me right now makes me think that sex with him wouldn’t be something terrible to be endured. It’d be slow and full of discovery and oh-so wicked. And I’m not hating the idea. Not by a long shot. Maybe I’m not in the right frame of mind to be entertaining sexy thoughts, but I can’t help it.
I play with fire a little more when I drape my arms around his neck and press my breasts to his warm—so warm— body. His cock pushes against my stomach insistently, and I ignore it, twining my fingers in his thick, black hair.
Vektal leans his face close to mine again, his gaze flicking to my mouth and then to my eyes. It’s like he’s asking for another kiss but unsure how to go about it.
“Do aliens not kiss?” I ask softly, leaning in to brush my lips over his again. “I’ll show you how to do all kinds of kissing if you’ll go up the mountain with me.”
“Moun. . .tain,” he repeats, and his eyes narrow. He puts his fingers to my mouth and then his, and then repeats it again. “Georgie mountain?”
“That’s right,” I say, pleased he’s getting it. “Take me to the mountain and Georgie will kiss you again.” I press my fingers from my lips to his.
That shrewd gaze watches me. He leans in, and I think he’s going to kiss me, but he only nuzzles my nose. “Georgie . . . mountain,” he says in a low voice, and then I feel his hand slide down to my bare pussy, where he drags his fingers over my folds. “Mountain.”
I gasp. It’s as much the startling, arousing touch as it is what he’s asking. He wants me to have sex with him if he takes me up the mountain.
I consider for a long moment, gazing up at him. Then I reach down and grip his cock. “Georgie mountain,” I agree, and I give him a quick stroke under the water. You take me up the mountain, this is what you get.
He groans and tries to push against my hand, but I release him just as quickly. “Mountain,” I insist.
“Mountain,” he growls and pulls me against him, his bigger body pressed to mine. For a moment I panic, wondering if he’s going to just take what I’m bartering. But he only rubs his nose against mine again and then releases me, pointing at my clothing on the bank.
Hot damn, we’re going up the mountain. Rescue party of two, coming right up.
We dress quickly, and I make a face at having to put on my filthy jumpsuit again. The chill in the dry winter air is even worse now that I’m wet and cold, and Vektal insists on me covering my wet hair with the cloak. It’s a good idea, but it’s still icing up in the brutal cold. Maybe a quick dunk in the river wasn’t the smartest of ideas, but I’m clean now.
He hauls me back onto his shoulders, and then we set off up the mountain again. He’s carrying on a grumbling narrative that I can’t make out and occasionally pats my cold hands. He points out landscape, but if I’m supposed to see something other than snow, I can’t make it out.
We head up the hill steadily for what feels like forever, and I’m getting colder by the minute. My teeth chatter, and my head feels like a block of ice. I’m cold and hungry, and the raw meat I ate has only made me hungrier. I didn’t realize how far down the mountain we’d come until I look up and it seems that the rocky crag that holds the ship is hours away. Which only makes my teeth chatter harder.
The steep ground slopes toward a steep cliff I don’t recognize, and I’m surprised when Vektal heads right for it. He sets me down, says something that probably means “stay here,” and then moves to the base of the cliff and begins to dig. I watch him for a few confused moments before I realize he’s uncovering the mouth of a new cave.
He’s not taking me up the mountain at all. He’s taking me to another cave.
“You have got to be kidding me,” I explode. “No! Vektal, we’re going up the mountain!”
The alien turns and gives me an irritated look. He lets forth his own stream of narrative, pointing at my ice-covered hair, the fact that my teeth are clicking madly, and that I’m shivering. He continues talking, gesturing at the cave. I don’t have to speak alien to know what he’s saying.
You’re cold. We’ll stay here tonight. Fuck going up the mountain.
And I can’t leave the others for another day. I just can’t. I’m freezing even with his borrowed cape, and they have nothing. Nothing to eat, nothing to drink, and no shelter. I’m so frustrated I could scream.
Instead, I turn and begin to stomp off, heading to what looks like the path up the mountain. It winds up the valley wall, laden with snow that’s trickled down from above. It feels like I’m wading through water, but I’m not going to give up. If I have to march every step back up the mountain to get Vektal to go with me to see the others, I will.
“Georgie,” he calls from behind me. Then he bellows out the sharp syllable I now know is ‘no.’
I ignore him and march even faster.
“Georgie, no!”
Too late. I don’t see the shadowed snow before I realize that when I step too close to the cliff wall, my foot doesn’t connect with anything. The ground beneath my feet disappears, and I scream as I slide down an icy crevasse for forever.
Only it’s not forever. It’s ten, maybe fifteen seconds. Then I drop and ploof into a pile of snow at the bottom, and lie there stunned. Vektal’s not so far away that I can’t hear him shouting my name from up above.
“Yeah, yeah,” I mutter. I can’t wait for the alien I was right, and you were wrong he’s going to deliver to me. I sit up and wince at the throb of my bad wrist. It’s getting worse all the time.
Something shuffles nearby, and I freeze. I look at my surroundings for the first time.
I’m in an ice cave of some kind. Icicles hang from the ceiling. Snow drifts line the walls, and, up above, a trickle of sunlight bleeds in.
It’s enough light to let me see the two dozen eyes staring back at me.
I’m not alone. And I’m in deep, deep shit.