17. Aliana
ALIANA
Stuck in my room, I have too much time to think. Not just one day, but two spent alone in my room, basic meals of warm bread and cut fruit delivered at regular intervals—no interaction beyond a tentacle unlocking my door and sliding a tray across my floor before the door slams shut once more.
My ghost friend, after revealing he couldn’t help me escape, must have drifted away.
That was admittedly my fault, because I’d crawled into bed after his confession and sobbed my eyes out, calling myself an idiot for not jumping at whatever chance Creep offered me.
Even if it was nothing but a trick, it had been something to hope for.
It would have made it seem like there was a light at the end of this bleak tunnel.
Now I have nothing but shadows and shade.
Creep hasn’t been back.
Neither has Mr. Ghosty, and I’m sure my tears are the reason why.
Time alone can be a terrible thing, I’ve decided. It can build a nest inside your head and invite terrible thoughts to come and roost.
I’ve never had so many free hours before, and it’s disconcerting.
I end up braiding little strips of my hair just to give my nervous fingers something to do.
Back in the forest, there is no such thing as downtime.
There is no sitting around. We hunt food, hunt teeth, hide from tongues, tend the wounded… and we do seemingly endless chores.
Here?
Nothing.
I’m finishing up my thirtieth miniature braid when my door slams open.
I jump up on my tapestry with a yelp, nearly pissing myself when a blobby slime monster slides inside.
I brandish a carved filial I unscrewed from my bedpost and a femur bone that I’ve been trying to sharpen by rubbing it along the wall.
But the monster—I can’t tell if he’s a tooth or a tongue—ignores me completely as he yanks open the door to my bathroom. My eyes go wide when he lifts one of the five-gallon buckets and tilts it to his lips.
Ew. I squint and turn my head away as vomit sloshes up and burns my throat.
He gulps down the contents of the bucket and then belches. He repeats the process before turning and giving me a smile and a tiny salute with a palm that has no fingers. “Ma’am. I’m Marterial. Maintenance here. You need anything cleaned, you just call out my name, and I’ll come eat it.”
The nod I give is the nervous, overenthusiastic, what-the-hell-is-going-on kind.
“And if you ever, um, end up using the facilities down the hall, please let me know. Eating out of porcelain is just…a high-class experience, you know?”
I might die of shock.
“Ever eat anything that made you smack your lips and just mmm…perfection?” Marterial is clearly a chatty type of monster.
After my social deprivation, I’m willing to give anything a shot, even talking to a shit-eater. “We had some squirrel once. After a hard winter.”
The proud look on my father’s face when he came home with a catch that day is still etched in my mind.
We huddled together over a fire in our tiny hut, the three of us creating an enclosed circle around it, sitting shoulder to shoulder and inhaling the smell of the meat—uncaring that our toes got singed by the little sparks flying from the flames.
We’d broken the rule about fires (which attracted teeth) but had been too hungry to care.
It was, without a doubt, the best meal I’ve ever eaten.
“Oh, yes, I’ve had one of those. There was a stomach virus that passed through the Threes last fall after a big get-together. I got dozens and dozens of calls. Best eats ever.”
This chat is a mistake. Marterial is about to get something else to eat when I hurl. Or maybe that’s his evil master plan.
“Well, enjoy your day.” He slides out.
Once he’s gone, I realize I’m alone again. Suddenly, I wish I’d made more small talk.
God. What the hell is this new normal? I wish I’d made small talk with a monster?!
When I stood on that stage, undergoing the auction, I’d had a thousand horrifying visions of my future.
But none of them included monster maintenance men and becoming my own worst nightmare as I roll thoughts over and over in my head until they’re as shiny as marbles.
I’m losing said marbles. I scrub a hand down my face and motorboat my lips, trying to—I don’t even know—vibrate some sense into myself.
I spent time with monsters and actually liked it.
Filia isn’t bad. Neither is Creep. And the more hours I spend thinking about the Devourer, the more I realize that he’s never actually done all the things I thought he would do… Last time, he even kind of took care of me, in a strangely domineering way.
But what does that say about me that I’m having these thoughts?
How could I possibly enjoy spending time with the very creatures that destroyed the world? That hunt and claim and enslave us?
The dichotomy is creating an internal tug-of-war where there is no winner. I’m just tearing myself apart over it.
That’s why, when my door bursts open an hour later, I jump up from my tapestry to stand on top of my mattress with a soft, “yes?” on my lips, my weapons tumbling to the mattress once I see who it is.
Filia glares at me from the doorway, narrowing her eyes and pointing an accusatory finger in my direction. One of her chicken feet scratches at the stone floor, and I’m reminded of a mother tapping her foot, waiting for an explanation for naughty behavior.
I grimace, and after marinating on everything, I’ve changed my mind about what I did to her.
At least partially. Wavering over every move I’ve made ever since I went on that godforsaken supply run has become my favorite pastime.
That means I’ve come to an entirely new conclusion about the ebony monster with orange eyelashes.
Her anger at me seems justified. She was actually the first creature to be nice to me since I was taken. And I’m having trouble lumping all tongues into the evil category right now. Maybe mindless teeth are bad, simply because they’re our predators. But not every tongue has been cruel to me.
The traders? Yes. The Devourer? I waver again.
Ugh. I don’t know. He’s still up for debate.
He did yank a chunk of my hair out. And just thinking about his glowing red eyes makes my stomach spiral into a helix and I want to throw something at him.
Especially for mocking my anger and acting like it was cute. Fucker.
But Filia gave me a welcome gift. Kept me safe from a sandworm on the way over here. And, the first chance I got, I bashed her over the head and locked her up.
Would I do it all over again if it meant I had a chance to escape? Yeah.
But did she deserve it? No.
Do my actions warrant an apology? Definitely.
I sigh, and my shoulders droop a little as I gaze over at her scolding posture. “Look. I’m sorry I hurt you, but I had to try and escape. How could I live with myself if I didn’t?”
I’m half tempted to continue on, to compare myself to a bird with a clipped wing, to ask her what she would do if she was in my situation.
But despite the guilt I feel about hitting her over the head…
I don’t actually know her that well, and I’m not even positive I trust her.
Divulging that information would be offering a piece of myself that I’m not sure I can get back.
I don’t know if I’m ready to be vulnerable around a tongue just yet.
She tilts her head, blinking those insanely long orange eyelashes as she considers my words. She doesn’t immediately speak, though, and my nerves forge me on ahead as if she had.
“I promise, next time I try to run, I’ll knock out the Devourer instead, okay?” I give her a toothy grin.
The tension vibrating between us finally shatters, breaking in two, as she snorts out a laugh. “Good luck with that. A human versus a Ten?”
I shrug with false confidence. “I’ve got skills.”
Like, I’m ninety percent sure I can throw one fist towards his midsection before he snaps my neck.
Maybe eighty percent sure. And I’m seventy-five percent sure I could do a junk shot—though I’m not sure if I’m petty enough for that.
I’m also not sure if his cock would, like, bite me or something.
I’ve heard of monsters who have sentient cocks. The brief time I saw the Devourer’s—
Yup. No. Not thinking about that.
She chuckles and waves me over. “Come on. Boss is out, so you can have dinner with us tonight.”
My gaze narrows as I slide down from the bed, wearing only socks. “Is that allowed?”
And who the fuck is this ominous “us”?
She shrugs. “Does it matter if you’re going to knock him out anyway?”
Good point. Except, I need a better plan for the next time I try. I don’t have one of those yet.
I stand next to the bed awkwardly for a moment.
I’m tempted to grab my weapons again, but that would be a show of distrust and completely defeat the purpose of accepting her olive branch.
At the same time, if Filia doesn’t really accept my apology, she could be walking me down the hall to get eaten by a tooth.
And while I used to think that might be better than whatever fate was in store for me here… now, I’m not so sure.
“You don’t need shoes if you don’t want them. We’re just going to the kitchen.” Filia misinterprets my hesitation.
I breathe out a sigh and give her a tight-lipped smile. “Oh. Good. Yeah. I might just want to grab them anyway. My feet are kind of tender.” And I’d never be able to get a decent kick in with my bare feet. Or make a break for it if the opportunity presents itself.
I scurry to the closet and grab my boots, hissing as soon as I get inside, as has become my habit, “Creep?”
Of course, he doesn’t answer.
Part of me has started to wonder if he and the ghost are figments of my imagination. I’ve heard stress can do things like that, make entire, life-like hallucinations appear. I give out a tiny grunt of dissatisfaction at the idea my mind might be betraying me.