CHAPTER 16

 

TAC’MOT

 

Today is a rotation of many firsts.  There was of course how the day started—with the improbability of bidding on and winning (and thus essentially becoming an owner of) a Gryfala.  But now, it is an entirely new first that I am staring at a broken door.  My broken door.  My door is broken.

Given that Brax obsesses over this ship, it’s rare for anything to be broken—whatever the issue is, it is normally worked on as soon as it shows signs of wear, before it ever gets near to breaking down.

Except for the engines.  Brax does what he can, but he can’t work miracles.

Therefore, the sunken impressions of what appear to be—yet cannot be—clawed thumbprints have me utterly baffled.

I grasp the door for balance then lean my head in so I can see the other side.

Impressions of a giant’s clawed fingerprints!

“Metark…”

A little more gentle coaxing using small nudges back and forth finally see the door struggling all of the way open for me, and dumbfounded am I to find yet another first: Brax’s scent isn’t only outside my door.  His scent is in my quarters.

In seven solars, he’s never so much as stepped those gargantuan three-toed feet over the threshold.  This has been—is my private little enclave.

As shocked as I am over this incredible (as in, unbelievable) impossibility, it takes me a click to register that the scent of him is odd.

Musky, and dark.  Like breathing a thick syrup instead of a condensation cloud of scent.

I’ve never encountered the like and I’ve no idea what to make of it.  It tingles in my nose so I bury it against the skin of my inner arm to rub away the sensation and mask it, even temporarily, in my own smell.

Shaking off the strangeness, I softly hop to the bowl on the floor.  It looks like she barely touched it.

She must be starving by now.

I look at her, finding it interesting that she is still on the floor yet she’s moved closer to the bed.  She looks to be deep enough under not to be disturbed if I try to move her, so I try.

I am wrong.

She startles awake and instantly starts to struggle.  Absurdly, something long forgotten, something my father mentioned in passing once, flits between my ears as clear as if he was beside me right now speaking it.  I haven’t heard his voice in so long that I don’t even remember what he truly sounds like.  I don’t remember what my parents even look like anymore.  But I know it is his voice.

“You want to know how I knew I wanted to be your dam’s mate?  She has a beautiful kick, my son.  Tether yourself to the female that has a strong, beautiful kick.  Life deals hard blows: you need a strong match, a strong mate.”

Ha!  He should have witnessed this princess’s self-defense practice on me earlier this rotation.

My spleen is still twinging.

If he could see this female now.  I’m struggling to hold on.  When I grip her tighter simply so that I don’t drop her, she starts to snarl, buck—and yes, kick—most impressively.

Shaking my head, odd day of firsts indeed, I manage to get her over the mattress before she tumbles out of my arms.

She blinks up at me, looking wary.  She smells afraid, but I am having great difficulty concentrating on her.  I peer down at my hands: they feel like they’ve been coated in moisturizer.  And they smell pungent—it’s Brax.  I yank them away from my nose.  They smell like the strange, newly heightened scent-version of Brax.

I feel my face screw up in disbelief.  What is this?

Looking up, I focus on the blanket she is clutching around her.  It has to be that.  He must have given her his blanket.

Two burning questions:

Just how long has it been since he washed that reeking thing?

And he gave it to her why?

He could have given her mine.  No, I haven’t washed it today, but at least it doesn’t have the fetor of… whatever is on that.

I suppose him lending her his noxious bed covering is to our benefit though because I only own one blanket.  Now I won’t have to worry about either one of us getting cold.  “Be at peace,” I tell her, showing her my open palms.  “I won’t hurt you.”

Her eyes show she is most dubious.  I start to tug my blanket off the bed, working it back and forth until it slides out from underneath of her.  She settles down seeing that I’ve no intention of leaping on top of her.  She settles even more when I start the inelegant process of lowering myself to floor level, stretching out on my side and kicking out my feet.  As I’m not cold yet, I start to ball up my blanket under my head—when a pillow suddenly lands next to me.

My pillow.

My pillow, that also smells a bit like Brax.

My nose crinkles.  I exhale in a series of small, dismissive sneezes.

She laughs.

Startled, I lose interest in the pillow, staring at her until I realize I’m making her uncomfortable.

“Apologies.  I don’t hear females laugh often enough to be used to it.  It is very pretty,” I tell her, accepting my pillow with belated grace.

It isn’t so much that it is a bad smell.  It is strange, because technically, it smells pleasant enough.  It is just as if…

To my instincts, it’s as if it is flashing a glaring, bright ‘WARNING: Property of Brax’ adhesive label.

But it is my pillow.

This is my room!

Yet my instincts are telling me to heed the presumptive warning—get as far away from my pillow and my room as possible, true ownership status be rutted.

My rational side is a little peeved that part of me feels driven from my own quarters, from my own things.

From my own Gryfala.

Not that I own her in reality, it is only that… that I didn’t feel like I couldn’t approach her before.  Now, my baser half is rebelling a little anxiously over our proximity—despite the fact the distance between us is not precisely a small thing.

Yet anxieties make for poor padding.  This floor is most uncomfortable.

After a time, when the air has dissipated the worst of the discomfiting scent, and her breathing has long since calmed into slumber, I clamber up, using my five limbs as I must in order to walk.  Slowly and resolutely, I reach the bed, easing in beside her.  I push my pillow in her direction in case she wakes up wanting to use it.

The way she’s wrapped herself up in his odious blanket, it doesn’t seem she minds the aroma at all.

To each species their own.  Clearly.

I stretch, reacquainting myself with the nano-engineered polymer softness that I have most definitely taken for granted before now.

Dear mattress, please accept my deepest, most sincere apology.  I regret that I haven't cognizantly appreciated you as I obviously should have.

I kick around a bit until I’m in a comfortable position, and I valiantly ignore my lingering discomfort at being this close to her.  No matter what the smell is projecting at my system, I am tired.  My skin, much to my relief, is so far clear of warning symptoms.  If my senses take the odor as a threatening deterrent, my skin does not.  I’ll just stay on my side, and the air circulation will naturally continue to work on the worst of what is clinging to her and perhaps by morning, I won’t have to fight the instinct to avoid what has been marked by Brax.

Resolved, I close my eyes.

Then I groan in resignation as she unconsciously moves to nestle against me.  I want to escape now but…

She misses her hobs.

Pity wells up in me.  This poor female—

A block of ice lands on my leg.  The burn!  I swallow a startled chirp as I flinch back but she doesn’t release me—doesn’t even stir.  The hypothermic limpet!  I stare down at her in horror.  How is it possible for such a warm looking little creature to have such cold feet?

Too bad she did not seem inclined to accept Grake.  They would suit well: she is in need of males—it is wholly apparent she needs them for warmth.  Plus, Grake most surely misses his kind.  Perhaps he wouldn’t be deterred by the threat of frostbite.

I grimace, bearing through the discomfort until her foot thaws enough that I don’t feel its sting.  Then, very carefully, I reach between us and tug up her top knee so I can access her other foot—and, with a fortifying breath, I angle her knee cap so that it pivots her foot against my tail.

Creator!  I will have words with that hob tomorrow.

Then… any vestige of disgruntlement at my plight vaporizes as she lets out a shaky sigh and with an arresting, comatose trust, nuzzles her nose into my chest.

Thankfully, the fabric of my new shirt protects me from the chilly little tip.

This bizarre little creature.  When her fingers unconsciously clutch and release my skin, my muscles all relax in reaction.  Strange, but… somehow pleasant.  I sigh, feeling an odd stirring behind my breastbone.  No matter the message Brax’s smell carries—I am surprisingly comforted by her warmth and touch, and by the time the lights auto-settle, I find I don’t mind her extra scent marker so much after all.  I wrap my arms around her, and experience the soft comfort of her mane under my jaw as I settle myself to sleep.