CHAPTER 5
CELESTE
It’s like I’m nestled inside the sun.
Everything is warm and bright.
Hands move down my limbs, then carry me.
I’m bathed, then tucked somewhere warm.
That bright glow slowly fades, but the warmth remains as I stir. I’m cradled in Razul’s arm, in another room made of silk.
Razul’s voice rumbles beneath me, but I don’t understand it. He’s not talking to me; he’s chatting with Sylvus across the table.
Remembering how Razul turned my translator off, leaving my brain nothing to process, only those soothing, deep tones…
A ripple of heat runs through me.
I leave my translator off and lean into Razul’s warmth.
He seems to like that; his thumb caresses my thigh.
A moment later, he offers me a piece of fruit: a peeled wedge of green citrus. It’s one I recognize and can usually tolerate, so that’s good.
I reach out to take it, but he snatches it back.
My hand moves toward my translator, but Razul gently guides it back down to my side. He looks down at me with patient interest.
Oookay.
The fruit comes toward me again. I pick up my hand. The fruit stops. I set my hand back in my lap.
Razul holds it up to my mouth.
My tentative reach is once again punished, so I open my mouth.
Razul places the fruit on my tongue.
Oh.
I slowly chew, letting the tangy sweetness fill my mouth.
Fuck, I’m hungry.
When Razul offers the next piece, I hesitantly open my mouth, carefully confirming it’s the same type of fruit as before.
The wedge lands smoothly on my tongue.
Across the table, a similar scene plays out: Andromeda lies in a silk sling across Sylvus’s chest, eating seeds from his palm.
His other hand absently grips one of her breasts, stroking with his thumb. Her chest is a good deal larger than it was yesterday, and her cheeks are rosy, her gaze unfocused.
She looks so happy.
Could I really experience that too?
Piece by piece, I slowly relax. The unintelligible conversation and Andromeda’s relaxed state put me at ease.
I get into the rhythm of opening my mouth as soon as I finish chewing a piece, and another lands swiftly in its place, chipping away at this new, unfamiliar hunger. I used to be able to go a whole day without remembering to eat. Now, my watering mouth threatens to overflow.
My gaze wanders. I think we’re eating breakfast in Sylvus’s kitchen. A wall of silk cubbies holds most of an intricate tea set, lit by warm light. Two of the matching cups sit on the taut silk panel that serves as the table between Sylvus and Razul.
I’m trying to figure out if the metal panel I see is a stove when something mushy and bitter lands on my tongue: a different type of fruit.
Visceral disgust overwhelms me with a full-body gag, followed by a wave of horror. Oh no.
I haven’t reacted that outwardly to a food since I was a kid. My guard was completely down, and now Razul will see what a difficult eater I am and won’t want me anymore.
I force myself to chew, suppressing another gag.
Razul’s hand suddenly grips my cheeks, forcing my mouth open. His finger swipes through, large but precise, removing the offensive fruit from my mouth.
Another wedge lands on my tongue, and he pushes my jaw shut, releasing the familiar sweet flavor to wash the bitterness away.
I sit there stunned, reflexively chewing, shocked that my distress has been resolved so swiftly.
I’m not forced to swallow, to try it three more times to prove I really don’t like it, not assigned the food for the next week as ‘exposure therapy.’
I glance up at Razul but see only apology on his face, and his fingers land behind my ear, massaging gently. I relax into his touch, eyelids drooping, unable to resist the soothing effect he has on me.
There’s a quiet whimper across the table.
Andromeda’s breasts are now visibly larger, and Sylvus’s thumb slides around the edge of her areola, visible through her translucent silk dress. A wet spot spreads from her nipple, and her blush drips down her neck to the top of her chest.
Her eyes flutter as she lets out a sighing moan.
Sylvus and Razul exchange a few words, then Sylvus stands and starts to leave the room.
Andromeda musters just enough focus to wave at me before Sylvus pinches her nipple, making her head tip back as she yelps with surprise and pleasure.
Razul offers me one more piece of fruit, then wraps a sling around me, shifting my weight from his arm. Unlike Sylvus’s gossamer silk, this sling is sturdy, heavy leather. The outside is nubby with reptilian scales, and the interior is lined with a cushy, dense fur.
I snuggle in, comfortable despite my nakedness.
Once Razul straps the sling across his chest—which he does with the help of his dexterous legs—I’m hidden from the world unless I decide to peek out.
Razul brushes his fingers across my cheeks and says something. I nuzzle into his touch.
He laughs warmly, then taps behind my ear.
I startle as the facsimile of his voice fills my mind, deep and rich.
“We’re about to leave the city and fly to my home. I’ll take you somewhere you can urinate. Do you need anything else? We’ll be in flight several hours.”
“O-oh, no, that’s fine.”
Once I’m ready—Razul insists I also drink some water and select a silk blanket from Sylvus’s collection—I settle against his chest. He climbs outside Sylvus’s house, then up staggered branches to the canopy.
There’s a low, rumbling vibration which must be his wings beating. Wind gently swirls around us, then with a jump and a lurch of gravity, we’re in the sky.
RAZUL
I leave Sherexis carrying even more precious cargo than when I arrived. I rest my arm over the sling, adding gentle pressure to assure Celeste of her security, especially as we climb far, far above the planet’s surface.
She shifts carefully, peeking over the edge of the sling. I smile into the cutting wind; she’s a brave little thing. She’d have to be to get this far and to agree to come with me, of all people.
Her heartbeat is bright against my skin, and it gradually slows as she relaxes.
The vistas of Zairion Prime have that effect on most sapients.
At this time of day, the crimson forests take on a deep violet cast. They climb the shoulders of jagged blackstone mountains, becoming tough and gnarled with altitude.
I fly us between two sheer peaks, my wings nearly brushing both sides of the narrow passage.
We emerge, and the desert appears like a spill of molten gold on the horizon, slowly pooling outwards as we approach.
The air gets hotter and drier. My wings finally stop itching.
Celeste peeks a little further out, and I hold her chest against mine, making sure it’s impossible for her to fall.
How much she already trusts me is intoxicating. Her heart flutters as she glances straight down, and her small arms wrap tightly around mine.
I’m already beginning to understand her feeding difficulties, which comforts me. She clearly doesn’t like Beaumox fruit, which is unusual for a human, but I’m no stranger to unusual feeding preferences.
One of my best breeding females only accepts supplemental prey of a very specific age, and it must be fresh killed in front of her and rolled in cactus oil.
If anything is the slightest bit wrong, she won’t touch it. But when I fatten her up properly, she gives me some of my biggest clutches.
I hope Celeste will do similarly well under my care.
Below us, emerald veins cut across the rippling gold expanse, tracing rivers and underground springs.
Artful arrangements of colorful stones gathered from under the sands mark the burrows and homes of the Coleopteroids who live in this area.
A sapphire spiral large enough to be seen from this height denotes the cactus orchard where I get many of my supplies.
I usually stop by to greet the elderly darkling beetle woman who tends the grove, but she’ll understand me skipping the stop this time.
Celeste is undergoing a major change; better to minimize excess stress.
We pass the last of the scattered dwellings and sweep out over the rolling dunes. The warm air is thinner, so I bank to fly through thermals, which offer altitude without extra effort.
My estate is nearly impossible to spot from the sky, and that’s by design.
Rustlers and egg thieves have to risk an arduous trek across the dunes to have even the slightest hope of finding my herds.
Should they even get that far, I find their footprints and camp debris much faster than they find even a single caimite scale, and then I ensure they’ve seen their last sunset.
My track record is perfect, and it’s been a good few years since anyone has dared set foot anywhere near my territory.
Still, I prefer to keep my home hidden. I have no issue flying directly to it—its magnetic signature is as familiar as my own breath.
I descend in slow spirals, unsure what Celeste’s tolerance for the change of pressure will be. She works her jaw, which seems to help her equilibrate.
Eventually, we approach a flat area of sand tucked into the crook of a lush river, where I make the final descent. Dust rises around us, and I hold the sling shut to protect Celeste until I’ve tucked my wings away.
Once the dust has settled, I open the sling enough for her to peek out again and hold a firm hand over her chest, keeping her in place. She responds well to the pressure, relaxing.
From this angle, the round, horizontal openings to my burrow are clear. The home sprawls low to the ground, partially buried, with plenty of openings to provide a view of the river’s burst of green or the distant mountain peaks.
Before going anywhere else, I tap my feet on the ground in a certain pattern.
There’s a burst of sand to my side as a caimite sneezes and pokes his head above the sand, revealing his bulging eyes and long, toothy snout.
Vibrations return to my feet as he flicks his tail under the sand, greeting me.
I turn Celeste in his direction.
“This is King. He’s the largest breeding male. He usually hangs around here while I’m away and throws quite a fit if I’ve been gone too long.”
“He misses you?”
“He misses his females getting extra food. They tend to steal his when they don’t get their fill.”
She giggles against my chest, a cute little trilling sound. “So he doesn’t see it as a threat when you feed them?”
“As far as he’s concerned, I’m his personal servant.
Now, Celeste…” I reach down and put a finger under her chin, tipping her gaze toward me.
“It’s very important that you don’t go anywhere by yourself, even in the house.
You’re the same approximate size and shape as caimite food.
They bite first and ask questions later, so it will take time for me to teach them you aren’t dinner. ”
She leans closer to me. “Got it.”
“I have one more job for you, Celeste.”
Her grey eyes shine with determination as she nods. “I can handle it.”
“Good girl. Your job is to relax.”
I reach past her adorable, confused expression to turn off her translator, then carry her into the shade of my home. Her pale skin will do poorly in the sun.
The mud-brick walls are covered in packed sand, taking on the same color and texture as the surrounding desert.
I carved the home into a wide, flat network of chambers and short tunnels.
There are a few deeper chambers below us for cool storage and weathering sandstorms, but I mostly live open to the air.
I move through my home, collecting a wide, round basket made of dried cactus flesh and a few woven blankets.
This forms a suitable bed for Celeste and will also protect her; the caimites know better than to disturb these baskets, which I use when gathering their eggs. The blankets usually cushion the fragile shells, which means they’ll be suitably comfortable for Celeste.
Since she’s been so trusting, I scoop her up from the sling and set her in the basket, crouching over her.
She looks up at me with curiosity, and I tousle her hair before gently palpating her hips and breasts. Most of the morning’s meal has gone to filling out her body. She’ll require an abundance of nutrition before she lactates at the rate typical for a hucow.
Though the glands in her breasts are still on the small side, they’re quite firm, meaning she may need milking earlier than I expect.
Celeste stiffens slightly as I rub her breasts, so I gentle my touch once I’ve assessed her progress. She doesn’t entirely relax.
I could turn her translator on and ask her, but I don’t think she’d actually tell me the truth.
So, I massage her head behind her ears. She’s as responsive to this touch as most mammals tend to be, sighing as she relaxes.
Once her eyes have slid shut, I move a hand to her breast, and she moans openly. The sound seems to startle her, and she blushes and stiffens again.
So it’s shyness, not pain, that causes her to tense under my touch. That will be easily remedied over time.
I ruffle her hair again, and she grooms herself cutely as I turn to the rest of the kitchen. The cabinets are made of red clay with doors of woven cactus twine and colorful tile counters.
A carved soapstone sink is fed by the river and drains into a septic treatment system that sterilizes the water with sunlight before returning it to the river’s flow.
I lift a trapdoor in the floor and reach a leg down into the cool storage chamber, fetching a mesh bag of fruit. I wash these in the sink, then cut them and arrange them in a shallow bowl.
Celeste watches from her basket all the while, the direction of her gaze made clear by those dark pupils at the center of her grey eyes. She watches my hands as I cut, my stomach as I move, the bowl as I lift it and bring it toward her.
She tenses warily as she reviews the bowl, so I set it next to her and turn away, relieving her from the stress of being supervised. That should keep her busy while I prepare dinner for the rest of my pets.