Jonohkada

CHAPTER 1

LOCATION: PLANET EARTH. REGION: CHICAGO, USA.

Among humans, there is a theory called the mere-exposure effect, in which repeated exposure to a stimulus (a person, for example) can cause attraction to develop.

I have been repeatedly exposed to many wonderful human females, but thus far, only platonic fondness has been achieved. There must be something about me—I don’t know what it is, but it’s something peculiar, something females must be able to sense, because not one woman has shown a serious interest in Choosing me.

There are females who have attempted to corner me for their sexual gratification, but those encounters were the farthest thing from the pursuit of a female who has a genuine desire to love me.

My friends—chiefly Gracie, Isla, Mandi, Angie, Jen, and Gwen—tell me that this only means I haven’t found the right woman yet. I hope that if I ever find her, that I recognize her.

That’s been my greatest fear as we made the journey to Earth. What if I pass by my mate, and don’t realize it? We could be walking on this same pedestrian traveling strip I’m striding on now, and the other half of my soul might not echo loudly enough to catch my notice.

My inattention could cost me my lifemate.

It’s a distressing thought.

Ahead of me, a woman glances over her shoulder, looking back in my direction. Dark brown tresses fall well below her shoulders, a mass of tresses, yet the abundance of her mane cannot hide that the fit of her dark suit jacket is sharply, suavely cut. Her skirt is a simple A-line, and her legs are shapely and long. If she is responsible for her wardrobe choices—as most human females are, as they don’t have a harem of hobs—she has a keen eye. And speaking of her keen eye, as she’s sending a glance over her shoulder, she evidently sees something alarming behind us—because she swiftly turns back to the wide strip of pedestrian travel path ahead and hurries forward.

I take a wary glance over my shoulder as well, but see no one. However, I am unfamiliar with the area, and therefore, I’m unfamiliar with—and possibly vulnerable to—the local dangers.

Potentially adding to the danger, it is a dusky-skyed day. I read a factoid that human crime tends to increase when darkness falls. Although it’s merely noontime on this part of Earth, perhaps it is dark enough for crimes to occur. Quickly facing forward, I speed up to close the distance between myself and the lone female. Somehow, just being in an Earthen female’s vicinity is comforting.

Buildings made primarily of reddish brick line both sides of the busy transportation tarmac. Bright orange cone-shaped objects ring a section of buckled plascrete that the female ahead of me deftly avoids, and I avoid too. In front of an establishment that smells strongly of foods, tables and a seating area—with colorful canopies extending over each table—are caged off with wrought iron bars, narrowing our travel path, but they don’t slow our pace.

Fabric awnings hug building fronts and advertise establishment names and branding. Above the awnings are elegantly shaped black-necked lamps that, at night, must illuminate the alien characters nicely. Higher still along the building’s sides are hanging signs that advertise establishment names, mostly shops and refreshment servers. Lil Dog Feline Grooming is what the last sign read. The Rail Bar and Grill reads the black sign that I’m passing under now. Kitchen open late, it adds off to the side in smaller print. The words have barely made their translations in my brain when I’m hurrying under the next sign, a blue one that reads My Colonial Painting Inc. I pass another sign, a vertical one attached to a pole with a large lamppost on it that must illuminate this traveling strip at night, and this sign has an artistic depiction of what I believe is called a clock tower, and Ravenswood is the word above the sign.

Soon my longer strides have nearly caught me up to the female swiftly striding ahead of me. Strangely though, even though I’ve followed her around two corners and the length of five human village’s traffic squares, when she glances over her shoulder again, something she sees is still clearly upsetting to her, because she attempts to increase her speed. Though her footwear is as soignée as the rest of her, it is not up to the task of such speed, and she trips in her stylish pumps. Right in front of Lu’s Nail Boutique and Foremost Cleaners and Alterations. She narrowly misses striking a red cylindrical object that juts up between her and the plascrete edging running alongside the transportation tarmac. Whatever the object is, it smells like ten thousand kinds of alien urine.

I ignore the unpleasant smells and rush for her. “Oh no! Female, are you injured?”

“Stay away from me!” she shouts from the rough plascrete-like surface she’s crumpled on.

It’s a clear order.

I skid to a stop, obedient to her command. But I glance around us, expecting to see a threat in the area, knowing something caused her to attempt a high-risk race. I see other humans walking, though only one is somewhat close. He is striding ahead of us though, wearing a red sweater-styled garment with a black haversack slung over one of his shoulders. His lower half is fitted in sturdy-looking blue trousers, the surface of the fabric appearing to be woven in deep diagonal parallel ridges. In his hands is no weapon I can see, only a large white cup that I believe may contain a necessary human nutrient called coffee.

“Who is frightening you?” I ask.

Because whoever it is, whoever caused her to panic and fall, I will offer to soundly wingslap them.

She stares at me, her mouth open. Then her eyes narrow and she shouts, “Are you serious right now?”

At the aggression nearly boiling off of her, I cringe and ease further away.

I take another keek behind us. (Keek is a rare word in this region’s variant of human tongue; it means a glance made surreptitiously. I”ve been using it ever since I learned of it, hoping the term will catch on.) Still, no one is there. Warily, I return my gaze to my companion to see she’s gotten to her feet, but she’s somewhat braced, as if she’s ready to spin and bolt away at the slightest provocation. Stymied, I ask, “Were you hurt? Do you require chocolate?” I ask. “I don’t have any with me at the moment, but I can Comm for help.”

If possible, her eyes narrow further. “Are you crazy?”

I blink, thrown by the abrupt change in topic. “No. I’m not. I assure you that I’m not mentally deranged. I’ve been tested.” I saw my file. I received full recommendation to make this mate-seeking journey to Earth. Admittedly it was largely because my friend, Gracie, campaigned for me. And campaigning harder for me to leave was Dohrein, her mate, on account of his concern at my closeness to Gracie, although I strenuously attempted to assure him that I pose no threat.

The woman before me looks me up and down, measuring me. “I was ‘frightened,’” she says, bringing up both of her hands and tapping the air with her forefingers and middle digits.

This behavior is called ‘finger quotes’—a gesture commonly seen on this continent of the planet Earth. I’m well-familiar with it; it’s often employed by the group of human females who reside on my home planet. Finger quotes are such interesting examples of human nonverbal communication.

“Because a huge-ass stranger was freaking chasing me!” the woman finishes on a heated, baffling note.

My jaw slackens and I twist to glare at the way we’ve come. “Point them out! I’ll protec—”

“I’m talking about you.”

Utterly shocked, I face her again. “Me?”

The female gives me an incredulous look, her eyes going wide. “You see anybody else chasing me for two damn blocks?”

“Blocks,” I murmur under my breath. “The British definition would not apply in this locale, thus you would be referring to the distance of a metropolitan area and not sections of housing…”

The woman frowns. “Are you British?”

“Ah, no. I was instructed by a female of British origin,” I explain with as much honesty as I deem prudent. Obviously it won’t do to inform her that I’m not a natural inhabitant of her planet. She might receive the impression that I’m her new neighborhood lunatic. That would be incorrect.

I’m an alien.

She raises a miniature tablet—a device known as a cell phone unit, I recognize from my human study pamphlet—glances at its face, and rapidly drops it again. Likely she was checking the time, which her world runs by on strict schedules set in twenty-four allotments called hours. But she doesn’t move to hurry away. “Like… what? A tutor?”

I consider this. “It would be very fair to consider her my tutor. One of many.”

Her eyes narrow again, making my hearts sink. “Where are you from? And you better have a good answer,” she declares with challenge and suspicion.

I gulp. And when her eyes fly right to the substantial amount of thyroid cartilage that surrounds my larynx, I realize she’s watching my throat bob in nervous agitation. Against my will, I also nervously clear my throat. “I’m from a suburb outside of Chicago.” Very, very far outside of Chicago.

She points her cell phone unit at me. “Okay. Something about you is off. But I’m trusting you to be harmless—”

“I am,” I assure her, my gibbous shoulders—unnaturally gibbous, they have a humped appearance on account of my wings being tightly bundled along my back—dropping with my relieved breath. “I would never harm a female.”

I’m relieved that my wings are so well hidden. Surely spotting them in this moment would only add to her alarm. I’m fitted in a stylish black custom hooded cloak-cardigan that I fashioned myself. After crafting several designs, I found one that suits my wingspan well, looks modernly voguish, and most importantly it blends in with humanwear. The hood is overlarge and falls down my back, concealing the hump of my wings.

She looks me up and down again. “Riiight. I’m leaving, and you’re not going to follow me this time, and you sure as hell better not chase me down another block.”

At this, I feel quite ashamed. “I didn’t mean to frighten you. I vow that it was absolutely not my intention. I thought we were both hurrying from a threat,” I try to explain.

She studies me again, but it’s only the most cursory of searching looks. She takes up her cell phone unit to tap things at it, finger stabbing forcefully, and I receive the strong impression that this female would be a formidable opponent should she be moved to acts of self-defense. “I forgive you. But you’ve managed to keep me here long enough that I can’t stop in and chat with my friend,” she flings her arm out, indicating a section of shops and stores on the other side of the pedestrian travelway, one of which has a brightly colored bobbin and needle rendering suspended on a hook over a cheerily-decorated doorway, “so I’ll have to catch up with her later. As for you: goodbye.”

“Farewell,” I manage with a gamely smile.

With a shake of her head, she turns enough that her back is only half-toward me, perhaps not entirely trusting me enough not to keep me in her sights. “You’ve got a cluelessly charming vibe going on, I’ll give you that.”

“This is not the first time I’ve been complimented in such a fashion,” I murmur.

But to this she says nothing, because she’s moved far enough away not to respond.

Sighing, I glance around, wondering where in this place I can meet the female who will want to be my lifemate.

IfI’m meant to have one. My human friends tell me I will feel a spark. Some recognition. Some signal that my soul recognizes its mate.

I’ve never felt that spark. For a long time, I looked into every pair of new eyes wondering if this was the person for me. Perhaps I don’t have a match. I’m of the mind that my soul has developed a weary acceptance that it”s actually meant to go its lifespan alone.

I shake myself, shake my thoughts and even my wings where they lie hidden against my back, and I take in my surroundings. Inadvertently, because I was following the female dashing ahead of me, I’ve ended up in a part of the cityscape I did not study adequately on the map I was provided with. I look for pedestrian travelway signs, but the names aren’t familiar.

Swallowing, I glance to the shops that the woman indicated, seeing once more the decorated doorway of the bobbin shop.

Resetting my shoulders to look confident, I stride to the white strips painted on the transportation tarmac, using them to access the other side’s travelway when walking lights indicate it’s safe for me to step on them.

And then I’m at the door of the bobbin shop, a curious but welcome feeling of excitement building in me.

An internal voice announces, Your mate is here.

My eyes shoot wide and my wings instinctively snap open—but the cloak I’m wearing binds them too tightly to expand.

And with an inhale, my hearts start to hum. Hope, long dead, flaps to life in my chest. Because there’s a faint, faint scent, one I’ve never chanced upon before in my lifespan—but I recognize it with every fiber of my being.

My mate ishere.