CHAPTER 2
I all but rush into the establishment. Dimly I notice the other shops nearby, but I can hardly profile them as I step inside the building that smells of fabrics, machine oil, and feminine scents.
Most especially my mate’s feminine scent.
My eyes frantically scan the shop for a moment—a riot of colors—before I have to pause, instinctively compelled to look up above my head, but there are no rafters for perching. As a member of a winged species who has always lived on a planet that caters to the flight-born population, this is an odd phenomenon to experience when entering establishments.
“Hello,” someone croaks. But the voice sounds strange for a human. It’s almost a feminine-level projection, but something about the quality of this voice is odd.
“Hello…” I call back, politely but hesitantly, because although I see rows and rows of fabric bolts, a stand of paper patterns, and a rack containing innumerable translucent bags of white fluff, I see no persons. Tidy purple shelves start at the far wall and cross the store in rows, displaying their array of cloth on the diagonal to maximize space. At any other time, I would happily peruse the selection, but now my eyes sweep over the offerings and move on, searching. The floor is some sort of flecked white material with a veneer overlay, worn in spots, but clean. I see no persons.
“Hello!” they shout back in that same oddly too high pitch. There’s almost a whistle to it, as if they’re missing teeth. I was warned that this planet’s dental work is somewhat primitive compared to our own. A wave of pity swells inside my gut.
“Hello,” I respond again, unsure of what other response to make, but heartened that at least the greeter is enthusiastic. “To whom am I speaking? I can’t spy you.” Only the front of the store has windows. The rest of the interior is walls decorated with products and signage. Simple light structures illuminate the space, which is still devoid of persons.
“HELLO! HELLO, HEWWWEEET!” screeches the greeter, making me fall back against the door in alarm.
Yet still there is no person in sight.
“Mick, don’t be rude!” someone calls—and my body imitates rock, falling completely still, because this time I can discern with certainty that the voice is a woman’s.
And it’s the most beautiful voice I’ve ever heard.
She emerges from a row of fabrics. Endless fabrics. I would almost, almost be distracted by the Earthen offerings that make up my surroundings… but not even the loveliest of mercantiles can keep my gaze from the female approaching me.
As if she’s struck by the same instinctive recognition, she sees me and she comes to a dead stop, her eyes widening. Large eyes, ones that appeared a trifle weary before I surprised her. My gaze devours all of her: zaftig curves, a mane full of glossy hair tied back in an elegant, sophisticated twist, yet puffs of hairs have escaped in every direction—an indication that the tendrils haven”t received the proper conditioning, ruining her manestyle. She has earrings, which, before humans arrived on my planet, would have been a shocking thing to see on a female, because females of my kind have an extreme aversion to the piercing of flesh.
(Rakhii have a sealing custom wherein they lean their ears against the rookery doorpost belonging to the rookery they wish to reside in and each hob in the Gryfala’s service drives an awl through the Rakhii’s ear and fits him with an earring that represents the Rakhii’s pledge that he will comply when the hob gives him directions. As you can imagine, it’s a largely specious custom.)
She wears serviceable clothing, much of which is obscured by the black apron that covers her front. The lapels on the collar of her white long-sleeve shirt flare over the neck strap of the plain apron, but besides this fabric, she wears nothing else on her lovely neck. No necklace nor any jewelry adorns her that I can see at all. Behind her apron, her legs are encased in slightly loose black fabric. Pants, they are called in this region of Earth. These and her apron are ever so slightly disheveled with little smudged marks, like prints from pawed animals, and what appears to be wood shavings.
She. Is. Beautiful.
It’s as if electricity arcs in the air between us. My hearts sizzle at the sight of her.
As if the muscle that beats behind her breast recognizes mine, she’s standing just as frozen as I am. “Hello,” she says to me, and her voice is sultry in a way my ears adore. She looks me up and down—and then she does it again slowly.
As I said, I’m wearing a dark cloak-cardigan inspired by Earthen styles of clothing. My trousers are a deep mottled indigo color, and the material is woven from a high tensile strength fabric that is nearly flame repellent—a feature that is useful when you interact with a species who breathes fire.
The strange being that greeted me upon my entry looses an ear-splitting scream. “IneedaHUGNOW. NOW! NOWWW!”
It breaks the spell. “Mick,” the woman chastises before she sends me an apologetic little smile. “Give me just one sec.”
And my hearts explode. I’ll give her anything.
This is her.
This is my female.
I have found my mate.
Now I just need to convince her that we are soulmates, explain that I’m an alien lifeform, coax her to follow me to my ship, and reassure her while she makes peace with leaving her planet forever.
As my friend Isla would sarcastically say, Oh, this”ll be no problem at all.