by Rena Marks
“Not delicate. Well-mannered,” Bajoc ground out. “A trait which I have clearly mastered.” He passed out several small cards, his pinky extended. “I am teaching tea at 1 p.m. tomorrow.”
“This weekend? I am watching my offspring for Raine. She is having her crochet class that the cousins are teaching.”
“Yes. That is why we are doing the tea at the same time. Our mates will be busy and never know the importance of what we discuss.”
Chastien scratched his head. “Are we bringing the older offspring?”
“Of course. They will play quietly. The mates will have the nutlings because they can feed them easily, but the older children may be more distracting.”
“Tea? Why would we want to learn tea?” Pulmar scoffed.
“Because I took his class and Anita kept me well pleasured for two weeks straight,” Kamau said, a goofy grin on his face. “She loved that I was so well mannered.”
“She did? Is that why the ugliest of the lot are the happiest? Kamau is so pale he looks ghostly. I never thought any of the females would look at him.” Chautles scratched his head and then sailed to the floor when Kamau pitched himself at him. The rest of the men let them hammer each other for a couple of minutes before pulling them apart.
“Don’t get distracted,” Tristan snarled to Chautles. “Look at Bajoc. He has two offspring, and you do not.”
Tristan seemed careful not to mention how ugly Bajoc was despite the number of younglings.
But Bajoc took it in stride. “Trust me, your woman will not notice the scars on your face when she is so impressed with your manners that she is trying to subtly get you into the bedroom every time you have tea.”
Kresna cleared his throat. “Ahem. Ahem. I’d like to sign up for your class.”
“Of course, my good man,” Bajoc said haughtily. “Be prepared to have to put out every night for at least a moon rotation. Guaranteed.”
Kresna’s eyes looked like they wanted to cross. “I will,” he promised.
“But what about us?” Hekek asked. “How will we impress our little humans when they are not our mates?”
The rest of the men were silent. “Or human,” it sounded like someone whispered. There was a loud groan as he was elbowed.
“It is easy,” Tristan announced. “Because thanks to us, we know how the delicate cousins think. We are willing to impart that knowledge to you.”
“They like to dress up in their strange Urth culture,” Tiernan said. “Bright, flimsy fabrics that hint at the female form underneath. Strange coverings over their faces.”
“The veil,” Hekek said suddenly.”I have seen this. I wondered as to its purpose.”
“Yes. They also wear fancy gowns, no matter the heat. You will notice sometimes Titi mimics them. We all pretend not to see.”
“She is precocious,” Tristan snarled. “It is not my offspring’s fault.”
“We all know this,” Kamau assured him. “We do not mind if she is a little precocious. She cannot help being special needs.”
“No,” Tristan said, calming. “She did not do well with hundreds of years in stasis.”
“She just does not understand fashion like the cousins do,” Bajoc said to the confused Echo Nine crew. “Hence, the unfortunate hair incident.”
Tristan squirmed. “Lara assures me it will not take long for your offsprings’ hair to grow normally.”
“Hmmph,” a voice muttered from the back of the room. “Lara has lied before.”
“Who said that?” Tristan snarled.
There was no response.
“Moving on,” Bajoc said pointedly. “The cousins like gifts, just like our mates do. The gifts can be anything that makes a female tear up. But these are tears of joy. And joy means they are more willing to give soft touches and easy kisses. A handful of wildflowers. Perhaps a couple of rocks. Do not—whatever you do—ask another female to replicate her jewelry. They are quite possessive of jewels.” He grimaced, the scar stretching over his cheek. Bajoc may be his friend, but he was not attractive. Obviously, he knew what he was doing if he had scored the delicate Marcie for his mate. Humans must certainly be enamored with manners.
“They also like us to be sensitive to their feelings,” Kamau offered. “They like to watch men touching—“
“—but not fighting so hard they draw blood,” Tristan snarled, cutting him off as if he wanted to change the subject. “They are fragile and dainty. The sight of blood makes them gasp in fear. Something our well-mannered Bajoc did not understand when he smeared the guts of their kidnappers over the walls of their ship.”
“I have learned since then,” Bajoc muttered. “I was young and brash. Headstrong. Since becoming a father, I have come into my own.”
Rojan cleared his throat. “But what about...I mean, since they are so fragile...how will we...I am talking between the sheets.”
“Just take it slow the first time and everything will be fine.” The rest of the men were nodding, so they must know.
“But no means no,” Tristan said.
“And their cooking is horrible if you do not keep them happy,” Kamau said. “We are lucky the replicator is still active upon the ship. We are thinking of adding a second as a backup.”
“Incoming shuttle belonging to Supreme Commander and Ambassador Pritchard requests permission to land.” The voice was computer generated and echoed over the loudspeakers.
“Permission granted,” Tristan said, heading outside. The rest of the warriors followed him.
“Trichen. Up.” The small voice was as demanding as the small purple dropling who held her arms up to her parental unit.
“What are you doing out of school?” Tristan asked, perplexed. He lifted her easily to his chest.
“I don’t know.” Titi shrugged.
Tristan tried to appear stern, but the small one leaned in to press a slobbery kiss to his cheek. The tall warrior with the reputation of a brutal beast melted like...a female.
It was disgusting. Rojan would never behave so ridiculously around females, droplings or full grown.
Two warriors from Citrine Seven stood at the shuttle’s door when it opened. A woman stepped out, dressed in a tight, black travel catsuit that hugged her form. Her hair was piled atop her head in a huge round ball. She carried a small suitcase.
“Ma’am? I need you to clear this area. We’re expecting Commander Pritchard.”
“Clear the area?” Her voice dripped ice.
“Yes, ma’am. No one is allowed here but him. I need you to join the others behind the ropes.”
“I will stay right here. My man says I’m special,” Pariah sneered.
“Your man would be right.” The guard rolled his eyes.
“Do you know who I am?” Pariah looked down her nose. “I am the Supreme Commander’s wife. The Pariah Pritchard. He took my last name, soldier.”
Titi muttered. “She lost contact with da mothership.”
Tristan whispered into her ear.
“Awwight, Da,” she said. “I pwomise.”
“Good girl,” Tristan muttered, setting her down. “I can vouch that’s the Supreme Commander’s wife,” Tristan said.
The males nodded and moved away from Pariah. She stomped toward Tristan. “Where are my girls?”
“The Puritans are still missing, Pariah,” he gritted. “Meet Rojan. He is with the sniper team who will find them.”
“Kiss,” Titi demanded.
Pariah leaned in and Titi did her strange eyelash flutter on her cheek. Pariah patted her head softly, and then her sharp eyes turned to him. He felt the piercing stabs of her gaze as they roved over him, assessing his character.
“Good day, Ms. Pritchard.”
“Pariah, we have you set up in the cabin where Marcie’s Earth cousins are staying. There is an extra bedroom. Did you get to meet Josie, Mollificent, Trisha, and Ginny Ann at the reception?”
“Yes, I met them briefly,” she said. A look seemed to pass between her and Tristan.
<
br /> “I’ll take you, ma’am,” Rojan said. “I’m on my way there. I’d like to talk to Jo.”
“Jo?” He could swear the woman’s nostrils flared.
“Josie.”
Pariah’s smile was thin. “A nickname. Is she your girlfriend?”
A few of the men actually snickered, fools that they were. He decided to ignore the question. “Is this your bag?” He picked it up.
“Don’t forget the tea,” Kamau called to him.
He waved to acknowledge that he’d attend the training session.
The crazy bat who was dressed in the rubberized catsuit of a much more slender woman and had ensnared the Supreme Commander never said one word as they walked the short distance to the cabin where Jo and her sisters lived.
Ginny Ann and Mollificent sat on the porch. They rose as he and Pariah approached.
“Ladies, this is Pariah Pritchard. I’m sure you remember her from the wedding. She’ll be your houseguest while she is here.”
Ginny Ann, silly twit of a creature, actually giggled. “Miss Pariah, it is my greatest honor to meet you.” She curtsied.
The dried-up prune of a woman softened, looking pretty for a moment. Rojan blinked in surprise.
“It is my honor to meet you also. I look forward to our visit.”
He was so enthralled with the odd interaction, he missed that the three females were staring at him. He cleared his throat.
“Jo. Is she home? I’d like to talk to her.”
“I’ll get her.” Ginny Ann’s voice was cold. Apparently, the sisters had been talking.
All three disappeared, leaving him on the porch. From inside, he could hear the oddest shrieking from them, as if Pariah was a long lost friend instead of a stranger being introduced.
Humans were an odd race.
And then it was suddenly quiet. Jo stepped onto the porch. “Rojan? What do you want? I must get back to seeing to the needs of my new guest.”
Her voice was as icy as his had been when he’d last spoken to her. He winced. It was no less than he deserved.
“I’m sorry,” he blurted out. “I was jealous last night. The Citrine Seven crew was getting your attention and it made me crazy and paranoid. I’ve never had such difficulty with a case, but I’m at a loss with these missing Puritans. They seem to have vanished without a trace.”
“And you’re telling me why?”
He was dumping his problems on her like she was expected to care. But one of the problems was her fault, dammit.
“Because I can’t focus,” he snarled. “You’re on my mind day and night. And I’m not sure if I’m coming or going.”
Jo blinked up at him with adorably confused eyes.
Rojan gave in to his primal instincts. He grabbed the human female, bent her backward, and kissed her senseless.
Because if he couldn’t focus, it didn’t seem fair that she should.
Chapter Seven
Rojan:
“Welcome to tea time,” Bajoc said. “Gentlemen, please come in. We will head to the lunchroom.”
He had a small towel tossed over his shoulder. Many of the males looked awkward as they widened their legs and distributed their weight from foot to foot.
Each offspring who’d entered with their parental unit immediately headed out to the playground. Apparently, they were used to these ridiculous classes and had no interest in watching.
The small crowd of males followed Bajoc into the room, where small tables were set up. Unfortunately, the offspring were smaller than the adult Freijians and the tables were for their comfort.
“Now, the important thing to remember is to walk with ease and grace,” Bajoc commanded. “You are the king of the castle, no matter the size of the room, nor the size of the chairs. You must always own the room.”
He extended his arm with a flourish to the chairs. Several of the males tried to take one and slink down.
“Halt!”
Men froze in midair.
“Watch how I do it.”
He sat deliberately, straight-backed and at attention.
Some of the men repeated it.
“That’s it. That’s more like it.”
“Now, whether it’s you hosting the tea or someone else, it is important to be complimentary. Even if the tea tastes like the piss of a veshak beast, you must pretend it is the sweetest nectar from the delicate honeysuckle.”
“What? Why would we pretend? That doesn’t make sense.” Chautles frowned.
“My dear good males, the shit-tee-air the tea, the more of an acquired taste you obviously have. Thus, the more cultured you appear.”
“Oh!” Chautles definitely looked impressed.
“Schitty,” Titi said, waddling through the room on her way outside.
Tristan growled. “I will no longer replicate you diamonds if you continue to speak in such a manner.”
Bajoc held up one finger. “Watch this. Titi, my dear niece...”
“Yesss, Unkel Daddy?”
“We do not swear like drunken sailors, do we?”
The tiny creature dressed in stripes swayed a bit like a drunken sailor. “No, Unkel Daddy. Up.” She raised her arms.
He complied, hoisting the purple offspring up where she was able to grab his ear.
“And we do not let our maternal units know that we know these words, do we?”
The small creature pursed her pale purple lips into an “O” and widened her eyes. “Nev’r.”
“Good girl. You may enjoy a cookie to keep your mouth busy long enough to forget the word you learned.”
“Thenk you, sir!” She climbed down his body easily.
“Are you the reason she gets bellyaches from too many cookies some nights?” Tristan’s voice sounded growly, signaling another fight about to break out. But his first commander simply agreed.
“If it has been a day where she has learned a lot of swear words, then yes.”
Wisely, Tristan did not say another word. Apparently, the young one learned the cursing from her paternal unit.
“One thing the mates love,” Bajoc continued, “is to hear what they call the scoop on others. It is perfectly all right to repeat hearsay from others during said tea party, as long as you preface the negativity with the words bless them.”
“I do not understand?” Kamau said.
Bajoc sighed. “If there was a rumor that your mate was sleeping with Aello, we would say, ‘Bless him. That poor Kamau is clueless to his mate’s wanderings.’ That way we get the sublime point across that your mate is a tramp while being rather considerate about your feelings.”
Kamau stood, fists clenched.
“Not here,” Bajoc said calmly. “Stand down, warrior. If there is nothing else to remember...remember this. During tea, you are never to appear uncouth. No matter what. There is no growling, no fighting, no snarling, no cursing, and definitely no bloodletting of any kind.” Bajoc stood, and pulled a satchel he had slung over his shoulder. “This is not a purse,” he said, eyes narrowed. “Nor a diaper bag. It is a matchel. A male’s satchel. I have decided to bring it today to show you what clothing the mates enjoy for us to wear. This is a sweater. Marcie grins and says it is a Mr. Rogers clothing line. She loves it.” He fingered the material thoughtfully, and then riffled through the bag. “This is a fun shirt to wear. It is for pirates.” The white fluffy thing he brought out almost made Rojan cringe. There were ruffles profusely sprinkled all the way up the sleeves, and on the collar. The only person who could carry that off would be the hugely scarred warrior before them. He’d likely scatter the intestines of anyone who dared to scoff.
“The mates like that?” He knew his voice sounded doubtful.
“Definitely.” Bajoc began to strip his shirt off. The muscles strewn across his shoulders and back looked like they would hardly be contained within the flimsy frilled fabric of the white blouse. But very carefully, he pulled on one sleeve, then the other, and fastened the tiny pearl buttons up his chest to his neck, where he tied t
he long frilly straps into more bow-ties of countless ruffles.
Definitely, he could pull it off.
“And this vest is extremely attractive. The mates like the color. It is called blush. A rather ornate word for pink. When you are educated, you learn to use fancier words for the same object.”
“The blush is the same color as the petals of their personal bloomery,” Kamau announced.
“Very good,” Bajoc complimented. “Our first lesson did you well.” He turned to the others. “Kamau has been a very apt pupil for a while now.”
Rojan scratched his head, but his fool of a crew member spoke instead. “What are their personal blooms?”
All the males of Helian Six gasped in unison. Rojan glared at Hekek, wishing his crew could crawl under a rock and keep from embarrassing him.
“Their secret gardens.” Someone coughed into his hand.
He was sure he looked blank.
“Their delicate lady-bits,” another whispered, horrified at his man’s apparent ignorance. His man stared, just as blank-eyed at the answer as he was when he’d asked the question.
“You know? At the juncture of their delectable thighs?”
Bajoc sighed at the sudden silence in the room. “Tell me you have peered between a woman’s legs.”
Not one of his crew members would speak, afraid of incriminating themselves as uneducated.
Bajoc stood. “Just in case there are some warriors here who have not had the pleasure of staring at the tender orchid nestled in the secret garden of a woman’s hood, I shall describe it. There is a light sunshiny strip of delicate curls, the light leading the way to the prize...” he paused at the confused looks around the room.
Tristan cleared his throat. “Only yours has the pale fur.”
“What?”
Tristan cleared his throat again, delicately this time. “I only saw your mate’s during the birthing of your nutling. It is quite different from my mate’s.”
“I guess I did not know there were various colors.” Now Bajoc sounded dumbfounded.
Kamau raised his hand. “Anita’s is as dark as Tristan. As the midnight air without moonlight,” he declared, still in poet mode.
Bajoc’s jaw dropped, still amazed that there were different colors of gardens.
