Jonohkada

CHAPTER 3

Instantly I’m struck by a plethora of instincts, all of them activated quaquaversal care of my proximity to my mate. All while my female, nescient of our connection, bustles about her duties—one of which is evidently to release the speech-capable Mick from his enclosure, which is situated behind stacks of goods for sale near the ware checkout counter…

Revealing that Mick isn’t a human. He’s a minute creature with wings. He’s an alien avian.

I am woefully uneducated where Earthen avians are concerned. At any other time, my parviscient state in regards to this subject would compel me to study this new-to-me novelty with intense focus. However, I can hardly process anything past the I’VE FOUND MY MATE! alarm blaring in my brain and thus I don’t reach for my Comm and excitedly begin searching for all there is to know where avians are concerned.

Perhaps I should. Such is my focus on my mate’s face that when she turns from her animal and glances at me from under her lashes, it’s all I can do not to step forward, gather her tightly in my arms, and declare to her that I must abduct her and transport her to my planet where we’ll live the rest of our lifespans in mated bliss. It’s a shame that I’m fairly certain giving into this instinct would not spell bliss at all, but disaster.

To distract myself, I drag my gaze off of my female as best as I can manage and stare fixedly at the alien bird.

Which forces me to blink (making me aware that I’d stopped blinking) while my senses struggle to classify the animal’s coloration. Among the many translation options available to me, in Earthen English color terms, he’s the very subtlest salmon pink… but as the store’s lights reflect off of his feather shafts, he displays a startling duality.

He color shifts.

The pink vanishes and he appears to be a coconut sateen white color. Extraordinary.

Color shifting is a trait that Gryfala tend to find attractive. If I had a Gryfala for a mate, I would attempt to bring her such a creature to admire. However, this animal’s wings are so incredibly velvety soft looking as well as colorful that I’m glad my mate is not a Gryfala. My wings cannot compare.

“What’s wrong?” my mate asks, startling me.

My gaze latches onto hers. “Gry—the females I know, they adore color shifting things. Do you?” I ask, and I feel my left wing punch my cloak as it tries to gesture to Mick. My eyes widen. I quickly clamp my wing tight against my back once more.

My mate is frowning at me. “Color shifting?” She glances at Mick, then returns her attention to me. “He doesn’t really color shift. Not like a chameleon, if that’s what you’re thinking. That peachy color under his feathers is what’s known as a glow. And yeah. I think it’s really pretty,” she shares, smiling up at me before glancing away.

Really pretty.My mate finds another male really pretty.

Swallowing, I glance away too—and my eyes fall on Mick. Returning my perusal, he swings his head at a dangerous-looking ninety-degree angle and raises his wings, displaying sunshine bright splashes of color along his greater secondary covert feathers. Next he raises a chunky fan of brilliantly, intensely pigmented grapefruit-colored feathers that stand from his head down the back of his neck. A crest.

As if reacting to my attention on this part of him, his crest puffs, the feathers splaying wide, but only for a moment. They drop just as animatedly, flattening to the point his crest disappears by curving along his neck, and without provocation he leans forward and hisses, fixing a threatening glare on me, absurdly reminding me of a Rakhii.

But also a hob. A first mate hob.

First mates are the worst.

Because Gryfala tend to collect large harems of males, and if watching your mate split her attention between you and another male isn”t enough, imagine her attention being split between you and a dozen other males—or more. Academically, I can understand a first male’s rancor. It is easy to sympathize with the struggle one must be in not to feel threatened.

So why do I feel so blindsided by this first male’s instant animosity? I always assumed I would be dealing with a first mate”s aggression. Especially when every solar it became more and more likely that, if I ever were picked for a harem, I would be the dozenth male, or more.

Still making hostile eye contact, Mick says, “Hellllo,” in a slow, low, threatening voice, very unlike his previous vocalizations.

“Hello…” I return, unsure.

My mate, not noticing the scalding stare the creature is sending me, ducks over him and rewards his proprietary behavior by nuzzling the top of his head. “Cockatoos sound like a human being got infected with a computer virus, don’t they? But hey, Mick, look at you, being friendly!”

Friendly?And right in front of me, my mate is affectionately nosing another male.

I know, I know—as I already reminded myself, I knew I”d have to deal with seeing this someday—but imagining it could not prepare me for how it feels to observe it. My hand comes up and covers the region containing my hearts. Ouch.

“Mick is our store mascot,” my mate explains fondly as the animal wraps a feathered wing around her shoulder and lays its head under her chin.

Will she prefer a feathered wing over my wing type?

She lets the creature nuzzle her affectionately while she looks into my eyes and further explains, “Well, he’s actually next door’s mascot. But he’s really clingy so he had to be moved over here until the owner hires someone to be next door all the time.” Hugging Mick, she gives me a hopeful look that snaps my spine straight. “Are you here to apply for the pet store cashier?” She bites her lip, making my breath hitch in my lungs. “I took the initiative to post help wanted ads hoping to get a good candidate. The odds that the owner will give in become more likely if we actually have an applicant. Tell me that’s why you’re here,” she begs.

“That’s why I’m here,” I reply obediently. Because her phrasing may as well have been an order.

My mate releases a squeak of relief. “Oh, thank goodness! Hey, Mick?” she says to her primary male. “You might be meeting your new keeper!”

Mick slowly raises a third eyelid over his beady dark eye like a shield and glares at me.

“I don’t believe he’s as excited at this prospect as you are,” I point out gently.

My mate pets over Mick’s aggression-puffing feathers. “Oh, he loves new people. He’s an attention whor—uh, an attention-seeker,” my mate claims.

“I can believe he seeks attention from you,” I say. “Who wouldn”t?”

My mate looks up, her expression blanking with surprise. Then she glances away shyly, hugging Mick close to her chest.

While her attention is diverted, Mick grinds his beak at me, demonstrating how his weapon-edged upper beak and lower beak scissor together.

My mate doesn”t seem concerned.

I don”t think she’s aware of the undercurrent of threat and aggression emanating from him. I suppose he isn’t directing it at her; perhaps that’s why she doesn’t seem to sense it. It reminds me of the way Rakhii behave. But while Gryfala tend to blatantly turn blind to a Rakhii’s poor sharing practices, it’s our understanding that human females aren’t typically used to keeping harems. My mate has likely never had any experience with adroitly balancing a harem of males. If my mate were on our planet and comfortable with the idea that she’s an alien and that I’m her mate, I would be able to inform her of the dangers and in-fighting that tends to occur when harems include Rakhii or Rakhii-like creatures.

Clearing her throat, still seeming entirely, genuinely unaware of Mick’s silent, threatening eye contact for me, my mate peels Mick from where he’s proprietorially sprawled himself over her breasts, and she sends a quick smile between us both. Oblivious to the way he’s glaring at me, she leans close to kiss the creature’s beak as she steps toward a metal-barred cage, and she places him on the outside of it.

Mick sends me a victorious look. Then he throws his crest up triumphantly and loudly returns her affection by making obnoxiously overt kissing noises back to her as he swiftly and nimbly begins to climb the side of his enclosure. This is such an effortless feat for him that he manages to strut while his body is moving perpendicular to the floor—it’s impressive.

And it’s clear he’s aware of his skill because he’s swaggering. Using a cyclical tripedal gait, he confidently strides atop his enclosure, where a miniature playset awaits him. It’s covered with perches at various heights, various enrichment items in a variety of bright colors, and a rope bridge similar in fashion to the ones our Rakhii use to cross aerial distances at home.

This method of traversing is necessary for Rakhii, who are a wingless species.

I stare in consternation at Mick who certainly has wings. Why would he need a rope bridge?

Mick stares back at me, and perhaps his species of alien avian can scan and read others’ thoughts because he stretches one of his wings out as if to confirm that yes, indeed, he has a pair of exceedingly fine ones. He also kicks out one of his legs, before setting it down and raising the other leg, then his other wing.

I peer at him, and decide it”s possible that he”s merely extending his legs one after the other as a way of maintaining his balance. But it”s equally likely that he’s promising me that he’s a clever rival, and agile. Hard to defeat, essentially.

I don’t think he appreciates my studying of him. It could be that he believes I am likewise searching for weaknesses that I can attack, and thereby end his reign as first mate and usurp his place. With a screech, Mick’s crest lowers slowly until it’s flat to the back of his neck and his eyes pierce me with all the intimidation he obviously intends.

I wish my instructors at the Academy could meet this creature. They would surely put him to good use as a model during the Deflecting Rakhii Menace Tactics course.

My mate startles me by laughing. My eyes fly to her, and she ducks her head apologetically. “I’m sorry! I don’t mean to laugh at you—it’s just your expression.” She follows to where my gaze had been. “Have you seen a cockatoo before?”

“I have not,” I tell her. “Why does he have a bridge? Can’t he fly?”

Her eyes widen. “Oh, he can. But,” she gestures to him before letting her hand clap softly back to her thigh, “he does a lot of things with his feet and his beak and all those ladders and the sisal and surfaces are really good for him. He’s all about texture and color and interesting shapes and things. Busy mind.”

“I see,” I say admiringly. This reminds me of Gryfala. They too have busy minds—brilliant minds, and as I already noted, they are also predispositioned to wildly adore color and interesting things. I wonder if I can give Mick to a Gryfala as a pet.

Mick, not approving of the way my mate is attempting to split her attention between us, hops to the corner of his cage, wraps his incredibly articulated toes around the outermost corner bar, and slides smoothly down the side of it until he’s at eye level with me. The tissues around his mouth are leathery and not very pliable looking, but I detect the way their slight upturn conveys a clear sneer as he stares at me. His tone is minacious. “Hug. Me,” he demands. Once again he is speaking in a low voice. An overtly menacing one.

“No thank you,” I respond politely. Because our oft-repeated rule among hobs surely applies to this Mick: never let a Rakhii perceive that they’ve unnerved you or they’ll morph into full blown tyrannical autarchs who will torment you continually.

Apropos of nothing, Mick releases a loud scream.

One expects alien creatures to be capable of unnatural, mysterious, and disturbing abilities—but this scream is so especially painful, I experience a sort of ear barotrauma. My eardrums simultaneously react to his air-splitting scream with a pop.

I flinch and cup my hands over my ears.

“Sorry about that,” my mate says with a wince. She, however, does not cover her ears. She must be inured to it. “Mick, stop it! Here. Have some pineapple,” she mutters, opening a container that the bird must recognize, because he begins a truly impressive vertical climb back up the slippery side of his cage using only his beak and his talon-tipped scaly feet until he reaches the dish she’s placed his reward for inimically wielding his power screech.

Positively reinforcing negative behaviors is sure to cause a problem, and I consider warning her of this, but I’m afraid of offending her. Do I risk upsetting her when she hardly knows me and has no affection for me yet? Unconsciously, behind my shoulders, my wing talons clasp and unclasp each other like worried thumbs under my cloak.

“There,” my mate says to me. She gives me a bright smile. “I’m guessing you saw our post on Facebook that said we were hiring. Did you fill out the application online?”

I blink and feel my wings freeze before they press even more tightly against my back. “Application?”

She frowns. “For the pet store cashier position. You said you were here to apply.”

I fight not to wring my hands, and I have to fight even harder to keep my wings tucked low to stop my wing talons from wringing themselves in front of her. “Truthfully, I agreed that I was here to apply under the gentlest duress because you told me to say that I was. And I would be interested in learning more,” I tell her earnestly. “But that wasn’t, in fact, what I came for.”

“Oh! Well… okay,” my mate says, lashes fluttering as she clears away faint traces of the confusion marring her silky looking skin. “Then welcome to Sewww Cute,” she says, stressing the word with such a bright smile and such sparkling eyes that I am included in the cleverness of the homophone when she says, “So. What are you here for?”

“You,” I blurt.

Her brows shoot up and my wings flush until they feel as if they’re on fire. I shift, the sudden heat of them trapped against my back under the cloak causing me ten kinds of discomfort. “Ah,” I say hurriedly, “You… I’m hoping you could… can you show me how to apply for your Earthen job after all?”

Her expression flutters to puzzlement.

Cold horror washes through me. I used the word Earthen. To someone native to this planet and as yet unaware of lifeforms on other planets, the use of this word as a qualifier would be quite strange.

As the spectator to my very own catastrophe in action—made only more painful knowing I’m the architect of it—a silent groan of dismay leaves my lips. I’ve finally found the female I’ve been searching for all my lifespan and I’m going to succeed in frightening her away from me in the space of a few heartsbeat!

Her lips part, followed by a rapid flash of confusion before she shakes her head as if she’s certain she must have misheard me. “Uh… yeah. I can show you… how to apply.”

Jonohkada, you are a hopeless fool!I hear my most critical instructor from the Academy growl so loudly in my head, I expect to find him hanging over my shoulder, wing poised to strike the side of my skull just like in my schooldays.

I shudder. It’s been solars since I’ve heard that witheringly scornful, severely scathing, castigatory voice.

Thanks to a nanny Rakhii who broke into the school to visit his charge, a hob named Crispin, and became quite furious when he found his charge being punished in a manner he disapproved of, which incited the Rakhii to break our instructor’s wings in so many places, it took a season of medical visits with painful-sound treatments to heal his badly fractured bones.

Mercifully, even once he returned with two mostly functioning wings, his reign of wingslapping terror had forever ceased.

But no matter how long it’s been since I’ve felt that leathery slap, the sensation of being struck by him is so strong I feel my wings strain under my cloak as I cringe, and it takes real effort to relax them so that my wing talons aren’t worrying each other as they so often do when they’re free. Before I can stop myself, I bring my hand up to compulsively rub at the side of my head, where he’d always strike me.

Still eyeing me strangely, my mate beckons me to her. “Follow me,” she says slowly.

Of course I must follow her. But I’m relieved that her tone isn’t frightened or irritated or uncaring, and I’m heartened enough that I don’t mind that I cannot give into my impulse to flee the store, and send a communication to my friends wherein I confess that I’ve found my mate and failed my mission before introductions could even be made.

I pause. Introductions! Oh my stars! Introductions were neglected, mostly care of Mick’s dominating personality. This serves as a warning to me that I will need to actively stake a claim on my mate’s attention each day else I’ll be lost behind her vivacious first mate. I clear my throat. “What is your name?”

She turns, easily walking backward, and taps her breast.

I trip and crash into a basket. My cloak-cardigan, which falls around my shoulders in heavy drapes, usually allows my wings some freedom of movement while keeping them hidden. But inopportunely, the excess drape of the fabric tangles with my wings—which try to throw themselves open on instinct in an effort to catch me from falling.

My wings getting caught though causes me to flail, which therefore results in a crash with double the force. The basket I land on is of a considerable size, and although it holds fabric, my impact with it is not cushioned at all due to the basket’s primary construction material being an unforgiving hard metal weave. To add to my dishonor, due to my body being more solid in mass, beneath my weight the basket flattens, utterly collapsing, thoroughly destroyed.

“I’m sorry!” I cry in dismay.

“Don’t apologize for falling,” my mate cries back. Unbeknownst to her, stifling my ability to further do just this. “Oh my gosh, are you okay?” my mate gasps, rushing forward. And then…

And then she places her hands on me.

Electricity zips through me. I’m certain there’s an audible zap! as she makes contact. My hearts stop as if dead. Then they start with an unnatural jolt and begin to race—and I don’t feel any pain at all as she cups my chin in her hand and brings my face close to hers.

Oh my Creator. Is she going to kiss me?

“Can you hear me?” she asks, her eyes so beautiful. They’re the strangest, prettiest mix of gold and green I didn’t know was possible for a human.

“I hear you so perfectly,” I whisper. “And your eyes are ineffably stunning.”

Her eyes are very wide as she stares at me. She whispers back, “Oh. Thank you.” She gives me a sheepish smile. “Yours are too.”

My hearts soar.

Mick, very obviously taking issue with our proximity and my clumsy but clear attempts to woo my mate, lands between us in a flap of abominable white wings with an angry-sounding squawk. I may not have read extensively about Earthen avians, but from what I have digested, there are two primary popular domesticated fowl types: the chicken and the parrot. The chicken is usually incredibly friendly and nearly harmless.

I don’t know for certain that a cockatoo is a parrot, but I fear they must be. Parrots look similar to chickens, but possess the surprise biting power of an Earthen creature called an alligator.

This feathered alligator is marching up my body with menacement in his eyes. Long toes pointed inward, he clutches onto my shirt, his wickedly curved talons curling through the fabric lying over my torso and piercing my skin with every measured step. Not only that, his wickedly curved beak is emitting an intensely threatening hiss as he walks himself up to my face.

“No,Mick,” my mate scolds.

The parrot cocks his head, pins me with one eye, and flattens his crest in obvious warning.

I’m instantly thankful that Earthen chicken alligators do not breathe fire. This ability is definitely a concern with Rakhii, and the longer I’m subjected to Mick’s personality, the more I cannot miss the similarities to my planet’s crested, possessive, fire-breathing, mate-stealing alligators.

With a bracing breath, I opt to ignore Mick’s posturing and mate guarding tactics, which is what I’d be forced to do with a Rakhii. I’m feeling alarmingly certain the same techniques that preserve hobs’ lives when dealing with possessive Rakhii will work with parrots. And then I stare into my mate’s gold-green eyes in a daze. “I still don’t know your name.”

Her startled gaze, a paradise of emerald, rises to mine. She blinks up at me. But only for a moment. Then she’s smiling at me. “Umm, Hannah. I was trying to show you my nametag when you crashed,” she adds. “My name is Hannah.”

“Hannah.”My words fail me. I’m carrying the technology within me to speak innumerable languages, I’ve downloaded and devoured every vocabulary book known to humankind, yet presently I’m not sure that I can manage to make intelligent conversation with my mate to save my life.

Hannah doesn’t seem to be suffering from my same conversational flatline. “What’s yours?”

I stare at her. “What’s my what?”

Her incredibly bewitching mouth quirks. “Your name. You asked for mine. Now it’s your turn.”

“Ah, yes.” If I weren’t certain it would frighten my mate, I’d walk to the nearest wall and bang my head against it until the contents of my skull sorted out in the proper areas. “I am Jonohkada.”

Hannah’s face registers surprise, then pleasure. “I’ve never heard that one before. Nice to meet you, Jonohkada.”

Hearing my mate say my name causes small internal explosions throughout my body. Most of them seem to happen in my brain. The rest, further south. “Thank you. I mean—” I shake my head at myself. “It is inexplicably nice to meet you too!”

Hannah exhales a small laugh. “Let’s get Mick away from your face. I don’t like how he’s looking at you. He’s usually so friendly.”

I can’t claim to have been acquainted with him for long, but I find this difficult to believe.

As Hannah’s hands reach for him, Mick backs up and dips toward my chest.

I tense, instantly suspicious of the way he falls quiet as he bends his head and places his thick scythe-shaped beak against my shirt.

I feel a yanking sensation—then my shirt pops open, exposing a swathe of my pectorals.

Hannah gasps.

Mick rears up, standing at his full height—I would estimate that it”s a formidable twenty American inches—and along the inner curve of his lower beak which acts like the thumb claw of a hydraulic demolition excavator, he smugly rolls a hand-sewn shirt’s button.

It’s my hand-sewn shirt”s button.

The diminutive feathered Rakhii has destructively chewed the button off my clothing.

Causing damage to his rival’s possessions. I shake my head. This is textbook Rakhii bonding behavior, which, in a harem, is illegal on our planet. If Hannah were a Gryfala, this Mick would be put in chains to deter further overly possessive mate guarding behavior.

“Bad Mick!” Hannah chastises. But her voice is strangely breathless as her gaze stays fixed to the squares of my exposed skin where my missing button gaps the fabric.

I go still. Is she affected by the sight of my body? If I were a bolder male, I would offer to take off my entire shirt for her.

In order to have success in this type of flirtatious verbal play, I would have to make the offer as if in jest.

I am afraid if I offer to take off my shirt for Hannah, she will hear that I’m not jesting at all.

It takes her a heartsbeat to unfreeze herself and reach once again for Mick, and when she does, his clawed feet release their grip on me. And my shirt nearly bursts in two other places, indicating that Mick’s long toes were holding my shirt panels together, temporarily binding up the true extent of the damage: he picked not one of my buttons off, but three. Skillfully destructive beast.

“Your chest—” Hannah starts to say, sounding strangled.

“I’m fine,” I tell her quickly. I am lying on my wings though, and because they were tangled at the time of my fall, they’re not tucked under me naturally, and they’re starting to go numb. I must be compressing nerves.

Wide-eyed, Hannah drawls, “Yesss, you are.” Then she shakes herself. She drags her eyes from where they’re glued to my pectoral gap, and from there, it takes an inordinately long time for her gaze to reach my face before she straightens and glances away quickly. Her attention naturally falls to Mick, who she’s holding on her lap. “If you don’t behave,” she scolds him, “you’re going to get locked into your cage for the rest of the day.”

Ah, finally. An essentially Rakhii-level punishment.

Mick falls quiet.

Careful not to flash my wings, I get to my feet. Although if my wings do peek out as I right myself, Hannah hardly notices. She’s so focused on where my shirt isn’t covering my front that my heartsbeat quicken.

With the hand that is not acting as a perch for Mick’s dry, crusted feet—the color of which is somewhere between the unflattering gray of a rotted corpse and a powerful, dangerous gray predator, like that of an Earthen shark—Hannah covers her eyes. “I hope the owner likes your application,” she says.

“I hope so as well,” I reply.

“Yeah.” Still covering her eyes, Hannah says, “If she doesn’t, I’m going to tell her she needs to interview you in person.” Then she mutters something I can’t quite make out, but it sounds like, “If she’s not sold on you, just take off your shirt.” She drops her hand and stares at me. “Trust me—”

Instantly I trust her.

“You will get the job.”

“That would be wonderful!” I exclaim. “I would apply myself to the fullest in order to please the overseer who hires me.”

Hannah presses her lips together and nods. “I’m not sure if you should tell your future boss that, but if you do, I’m pretty sure it’ll go over well.” She turns, lifts her hand to urge Mick to climb onto her shoulder, and motions for me to follow her. “Come on. Let”s get you next door and get you an application for the pet store.”

We leave the crushed basket I destroyed lying where it is, with Hannah assuring me I should not take care of it, that she will set it to rights later. She tells me to follow her, and I dutifully do. The aisle of fabric bolts opens up to a set of transparent doors set along the store’s side wall. A sign over the door invites humans to visit the adjoining shop, and Hannah breezes in and holds the door open for me to tentatively but adoringly—and desperately—trail behind her.

It smells of wood shavings and alien beasts. The same white-flecked flooring as the fabric shop is laid down here too, equally worn and strangely veneered. Aisles of supplies populate the store. The shelving units that hold merchandise are much shorter here than in the fabric shop. The shelf units themselves are comprised of double-sided perforated hardboard backings that either have hooks from which wares dangle, or they have baskets of supplies or racks holding uniform stacks of canned goods, colorful bowls, and strange items.

Yellow containers with blue lids are stacked three high at the end cap of the nearest aisle. Behind these containers are rigid polymer units with shiny white tops and shiny jewel toned bottom halves. Each unit has a large square shaped hole in the front, and ventilation slats along the sides. Taking up lines and lines of shelving hooks nearby, there is a mass of what appear to be collars, although they seem to be made of patterned fabric rather than leather, which is what most collars are made of on nearly every planet.

There are six column supports situated in a line spanning the store, and on these pillars signs that look similar to the transportation tarmac directional signs outside (except that these are blue signs instead of green) are affixed and identify species shopping categories.

An extensive inventory of what look startlingly similar to miniature livestock transport crates on my planet line industrial shelving that reaches the white-tile ceiling along the rear wall.

Under the windows at the front of the store, there is a wood-framed display with transparent panels to allow for maximum viewing of alien creatures inside. If you want to meet me, please ask an associate for assistance, tiny signs read on every cage front. Black rugs are situated on the floor around them either for pedestrian comfort or, more likely, store cleanliness from the dirt and debris that foot traffic inevitably brings in.

More transparent paneled enclosures are planted in a tower formation to our immediate left and our right, and larger hexagonal vivariums dominate the floor space ahead of us. In them are more avians and a plethora of mammals and reptiles. Off to the far side of the store near to the rear, I see a hint of rows of tanks that smell as if they hold saline and freshwater, as well as some types of alien fishes.

“Do you have cashier experience?” Hannah asks.

“I don’t believe so,” I say hesitantly.

“That’s all right. I’ll train you,” Hannah vows. Idly her hand pets Mick. “You’d do more than handle money transactions anyway. You also clean cages and handle the animals.” She gives me a buoyant look. “Do you have experience with exotic pets?”

I consider my homeland’s resident Rakhii. “Why, yes, I do.”

There are also Narwari, but if one is judging based on the definition of a pet—an animal kept for companionship or pleasure—then only Rakhii qualify. Narwari are work animals, not pets. However, Narwari can typically be trained. One would hardly claim this is possible with Rakhii.

Near to the floor in my periphery, something dark slinks up to me.

My wings tense, my throat swells as I suck up venom from my glands and prepare to blind the—

The thing raises its head, and captures me with its eyes.

I halt. I gulp back my venom. “What is this beautiful creature?” I breathe.

Brilliant eyes the color of metallic iron ore stare back at me from an ebony face. Crowned on either side of her neck is an ash-toned mane of longer wavy fur.

An interesting swath of charcoal-colored fur plushes low on her sides, and I assume her underbelly, and from out of her large ears rise steely-colored tufts. Between her ears and at the points on her paws, legs, and tail, there are subtle stripes. She’s a sight to behold. Her fur is lush and soft-looking.

“A Maine Coon cat.”

“Ahhh, a cat,” I muse. Some of these animals were brought to our planet. However, they look nothing like this one.

Hannah chuckles. “Yep, she’s huge, but she’s still a cat. The vet tech labeled her as a smoke black Maine coon. But those are super rare and really expensive. There’s almost no way one would end up here, so that’s questionable. Whatever she is, she looks good. That fade from nightfall black to peppercorn gray makes her look pretty cool, don’t you think?”

“She’s magnificent,” I decide. She looks downy and soft, and when I hunker down to pet her, I find out she’s even softer. “Oh my,” I say.

“Go ahead. Pick her up,” Hannah tells me.

Forced to acquiesce, I immediately close my hands clumsily around the animal’s midsection and obediently begin to raise her off the ground.

And I find that felines are unexpectedly elastic. Her body extends, her rear half staying on the floor while her midsection lengthens to such an alarming degree that I pause, afraid I’m causing her harm.

“You almost have her, keep going,” Hannah says, laughing.

Spurred to do as she bids, I raise the animal’s front higher but I also sweep my other hand behind her to scoop her back half off of the ground and bring her halves into alignment. As I do this, there’s not so much as a degree of tension in her frame. “What a lissome creature,” I marvel.

“Lissome?”

“Supple. Graceful. Stretchy,” I summarize, carefully testing the creature’s tensile strength.

“You’ve never handled a ferret, have you?” Hannah asks.

“I have not,” I agree. “But whatever a ferret is, it cannot be as enchanting as this feline.” The animal watches me with half-lidded eyes and a patient, somewhat indulgent expression, seeming to enjoy my rapt attention. I raise one hand, delighted when her body automatically adjusts by stretching to bridge the gap. A lissome beast indeed. “What a superbly designed creature.” I gather her close and cradle her against my chest. I find that she’s comfortingly warm. In fact, she’s radiating comfort.

“I am in love,” I say in wonder.

Hannah grins. “She’s been at the store longer than I thought she’d be,” she tells me. “Usually when they come in as five-week-olds like she did, they get bought up right away. Erm, ‘adopted,’” Hannah corrects herself. She looks at me pointedly. “If you get hired here, be sure to use the word ‘adopted.’ Customers are very particular about that. They feel good if they adopt something versus buying it.”

“Ah,” I murmur. And under my hand, the animal begins to rattle.

My hand stills. By the frequency and the feel of the vibrations, I recognize what the sound is. However, I don’t believe I understand her motivation. My kind typically purrs for two reasons: amorousness and defense. “Have I upset her?”

“What? No, she’s purring.” Hannah gives me a glance I can’t interpret, her brows scrunching closer together briefly. “It means, in this instance, she’s content. She likes you. Haven’t you ever petted a cat before?”

“I have never had the pleasure,” I tell her. “But I find I like this very much.”

“Well… I’m glad.” Hannah smiles at me then gestures to the side doors we entered through. “Anyway, what I didn’t tell you is there’s an itty bitty, teeny tiny hurdle to getting this job. See, the owner doesn’t want to hire anyone. This store’s owner owns both this place and the fabric shop. Since neither store gets a whole lot of traffic, I’ve been looking after both. I carry around a camera that shows me when someone enters either shop, but when I get customers at each store at the same time, I’m in a bind.”

Translating her meaning, I frown. “What do you do?”

“I hop over and tell the other customer I’ll be with them in just a minute. But it’s caused some problems. People get impatient—understandably. And it’s not safe for the animals if we get someone stupid or mean in here unattended. Plus theft happens in the fabric store if people get left alone in there. We really need a person manning each place. About a month ago we had someone, but they quit and it’s been horrible.”

“I’m very sorry,” I say.

“It’s not your fault.” She pauses to pick her hair out of Mick’s beak, where he’d been gathering hanks of it. “But thank you. And who knows? The owner may hire you, and that will solve this problem.”

“I hope she does hire me. I sincerely want to solve your problems,” I share.

Hannah looks at me sharply, and my wings tense at my back.

Mick breaks the tension. He shuffles closer to Hannah’s neck and makes a loud kissing sound as he taps his hookbill to her ear. “Hello.”

“Hello, Mick,” she tells him absently. She’s staring at me.

I drop my gaze. Conveniently, I’m holding a cat, so I pretend to focus on her. The feline purring against my chest bunts her forehead against my hand, insisting that I keep petting her. When I don’t comply to her satisfaction, she rolls her body sideways and plants her cloud-soft paws onto my chest. Her toepads feel like cooked beans, distracting me from my faux pas, making me smile.

“I’m so enamored,” I murmur. And I am. She’s such a soft, warm, soft creature that I’m unprepared when her adorable velvety paw-mittens instantly turn into ten murderous talons—and she plants them firmly into my exposed skin and begins to climb me.

I flinch, my wings slamming open—or attempting to. Luckily my cloak traps them and keeps their existence secret. “Ah! Oh! OW! TEVEKthathurts—”

“Are you okay?” Hannah asks. From Hannah’s shoulder, Mick’s evil laughter rings out.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” I yelp, apologizing. Which is ever my instinctive response to punishing physical pain.

“Stop apologizing—” Hannah orders.

My mouth closes.

“It’s not your fault she’s using you like a tree,” she says, putting a finger in between my shirt and the pad of the animal”s left forepaw to break the grip her claws have on me. “Do you always accept the blame for things that aren’t your fault?”

“Almost always,” I confirm. My wing talons find each other under my cloak and worry themselves feverishly.

Frowning, Hannah peels the feline off of me.

“So many claws,” I marvel as her many talons are extracted from my silently weeping layer of epidermis.

Hannah holds the cat and peers up at me worriedly.

Unsure what to do or say to allay her concern, I begin to fidget. I clench my wings so they stop trying to obsessively clasp each other.

The feline, seeming visibly bored of our interaction, turns her attention to Hannah’s shoulder. To Mick on Hannah’s shoulder.

Mick’s crest shoots up. “NO! Be NICE!” he exclaims, for the first time sounding less than sure of himself.

Hannah quickly sets the beautiful animal on the floor. The cat, not Mick.

Hannah’s abrupt shift in position is no challenge to Mick, who stays fused to her like feathered excrescence. He simply, and very skillfully, adjusts to her change in position by riding the motion of her shoulder’s swoop and return, distressingly unflappable. When Hannah straightens, she says, “Okay. If you’d like, you can take a look around. Imagine yourself checking out customers, stocking items, sorting shelves, cleaning cages, and cleaning the store. And handling the mascot,” she finishes with a smile, and she raises her arm, raising Mick.

“I have to work with Mick?” I ask with dread. Although I should have known. Hobs are forced to share their mates and work alongside Rakhii, thievers of Gryfala attention, all the time.

Hannah grins up at me. “You”ll do great. Don”t worry.”

Bidden, my worry strangles. It doesn’t lessen very much—in fact, I feel anxious for still feeling worry when I’ve been ordered not to feel it. Not for the first time, I reflect how much it would simplify life if humans took better care with their words. But my mate has no idea she needs to take care with her orders for me, and there is no logical way I can explain to her my needs, not yet. So I give her a smile. “I will try not to.”