CHAPTER 22

 

BRAX

 

When Tac told me what he’d attempted to prepare for the Gryfala at the beginning of this rotation, I could tell he was concerned that she might not eat it.

With good reason: she didn’t.  I found it inside of the refrigeration unit, and I could smell traces of anxiety.

I licked the bowl to confirm it.  Where she’d touched: not the contents.  She’d been worried when she stored it.

Tac will unwittingly starve her to death with the meals he’s attempting to prepare for her, and her desperation now is obvious as she hangs her head, grits her teeth, and mutters to herself before she takes a grudging step in my direction.

The shock of elation I feel is confusing.

But I don’t have time to process it because panic floods me when she suddenly turns, nearly breaking into a run in the opposite direction.

I lunge in front of her to halt her escape, and I see that she too is feeling panic.

Why does this unsettle me?

I do not know, I do not care for it, but to regain her attention, I do what worked last time: I snap my fingers.

I watch in fascination as she exhales like she can breathe fire.

At the very least, irritated clouds of smoke.

But her kind cannot: and for this, I feel a miniscule stab of pity.  Because she is riled.  It must be frustrating not to be able to emote it.

I decide it won’t hurt to attempt to pacify her.  “Good girl.”

I’m mistaken.  She emotes fine.  From her killing glare, I gather she is promising me that if she had the means, by the power of her eyes alone she would immolate me, and this makes me smile.

She resets from full panic to pure, unfiltered vexation from one panting breath to the next, a change so fluid and an aggression so vehement I’m surprised she’s not spitting venom right in my face.

I extract one treat from the container I carried them here in.  I spent far more time on making them than I want to consider; forming hopper powder into balls and rolling them in syrupy sweetener was also unbelievably messy work.

Not that I gave a tevek.  I haven’t been able to take my mind off the way her happiness smelled when she was feeding directly from the sweetener container.

Just as I can’t take my mind off the way she hadn’t stirred when I’d separated her from Tac the first night she was here.  The unconscious sprawl felt trusting, intoxicatingly so.  Knowing she’d require rehydration after producing tears, I’d ripped open a hydration packet, intending to leave it with her, when I’d found them curled up together.  She’d moved with the bonelessness of the dead when I’d been careful to place my hands where I wouldn’t come into contact with her skin, or that silky-looking mane, and I’d applied utmost cordiality when I’d shoved her all of the way to the wall.

I shake my horns and focus.  The hopper powder will fulfill her nutritional requirements, and the sweetener will entice her to eat.  It’s perfect.

So is her resigned expression.

But although she is submitting, she’s not doing so without a token of fight.  Her eyes are flashing and her small teeth show themselves most impressively.

For teeth that have been filed flat, anyway.

I hold the treat up, and she nods like this all pains her.  I snap my fingers once more, pointing to the space right between my feet.

She snarls.

I let my brow ridges rise.  Slowly, I start to tuck the treat back into—

“Waaayyyt,” she says quickly before letting her head drop in clear resignation.

She’s muttering again.  “Jerrrk!  Jerrrk!  Jerrrk!”

Hmm.  This doesn’t sound very complimentary.  I tilt my head a fraction and feel my ears perk with an air of superiority I don’t attempt to suppress.

She whimpers and shakes her head.  “Eyy’ll dew whot ewe saay, yore highnasss.”

“I don’t even know what that means, but I love the way it sounds coming from your mouth,” I tell her with a grin that feels satisfyingly, wickedly, evil.

When she comes to a stop at my feet, clearly moving against her will, I pull the dust collection device from my other pocket, and use it to stroke over her mane.

To further reward her for completing the action I desired, I now carefully skewer a hopper ball with a thumb and foreclaw, and offer it to her.

I expect her to take it off of my claws, which she does.

I do not expect her to veer from my claws and bite my thumb.

Both our eyes go wide with shock, and she looks like this was an impulse she gave in to in haste, and she is regretting it a click too late to take back.

I’m stunned.

What I should be is furious.  I should be the one fighting to get away from her clutches right now, yet she is the one scrambling back.

I receive a second jolt of shock: I want to follow her.

I quickly examine my digit, and find it bears no mark at all.  No saliva seems to have even transferred, and certainly no venom.  If I hadn’t been watching her, if I hadn’t felt the pinch: it’d be as if it never happened.  She didn’t truly bite me.

Why don’t I feel relieved?

The way she’s covering her face with her hands, verbally castigating herself and pleading apologies right now brings me no pleasure either.  To see such a proud creature essentially cowering in fear?  I should revel in this. But I can’t.  It unsettles me.  Pleasure and revelry are so far from what she is stirring in me.

I want to comfort her.  I feel drawn to her; I feel the desire to ease her distress.  No!  This is wrong!

Why doesn’t it feel wrong?

My poor brother.

But bitter memories have their usefulness.  Being reminded of his inculcation at the hands of another Gryfala is like a shower of ice shards being rained down on my horns.