by Elsa Jade
Evens made that Earther gesture with his shoulders that indicated he didn’t know, didn’t care, didn’t want to say, or some combination of the above. “No one else was using it or any of the other things since the center was abandoned.”
Collecting his selections, including the confused sensor, Sting stalked toward the empty sack he’d brought with him. The back room of the shop was stuffed with non-Earther tech; Evens had been persistent in his thieving even if he wasn’t painstaking.
Maybe that had been the problem with Lana? Had she sent him away because he’d been too persistent? Or not enough? He had willingly taken the inconsequential pains of her clamping thighs, digging fingernails, even her involuntary zaps. But then she’d banished him anyway.
The sensor beeped another seismic warning before he dumped it into the sack along with his other finds to finish repairs. With the late-morning sun, he’d left the Diatom synthesizing the data gel and returned to the Wavercrest abode to demand that Lana…do something.
Instead, the Wavercrest guardsman had informed him that Lana and her mother were sequestered doing female things. Thomas had used more words than that, but the exact language didn’t matter since the meaning had been simple and clear even without Lana standing right there: Go away.
So he did. Because he might be just a beast of war, but he knew when he wasn’t wanted.
When he’d brusquely informed the guardsman that he would be visiting Evens’ Odds & Ends Shop, should Lana require anything of him, Thomas had given him a look even more inscrutable than a shrug. The expression most closely resembled the look of a Cretarni soldier watching one of his fellows drift toward the deep: a mix of helpless dismay and resignation.
“If she asks, I’ll let her know,” Thomas said eventually. “Might I suggest that you don a disguise?”
And so Sting had found himself stalking the streets of Sunset Falls in his battle skin covered with a long flowing layer that the guardsman called a trench coat.
“It’s all I have that will fit you, sir,” Thomas had said with a grimace. “But please don’t let anyone see what you have on underneath—what you don’t have on underneath. Also, your lack of footwear will seem suspicious, so if anyone questions you, you should probably just run. Oh, this is probably a terrible idea…”
Sting eyed him. “Yes, terrible. I have never run from an enemy.”
“Imagine all the words it would take to explain why you killed a closed-worlder,” the guardsman cautioned. “Sometimes running is easier.”
“Lana ran,” Sting grumbled, “rather than tell me anything.”
Thomas pursed his lips to one side then the other, as if he were priming whatever he was about to say. Sting, who’d very recently bragged that he had the strength and endurance to last nights and days at a time, found himself impatiently contemplating throttling this particular closed-worlder, but that would just keep the explanation bottled inside the other male, so he waited.
“I have not spent all that much more time with Miss Lana than you,” Thomas said finally. “But if I might offer some Earthling insights…” He hesitated again.
“Speak,” Sting growled. “I am more than the unknowing monster everyone seems to fear.”
Thomas gazed at him. “The knowing one?”
Sting narrowed his eyes. “You’re saying that Lana thinks I’d purposely hurt her?” A rage, very much in keeping with what any reasonable sentient creature would fear, stropped his senses to a predatory edge. “No. I have held back at every moment—”
But Thomas was shaking his head. “You are not the monster she fears.” He folded his hands together. “She is.” When Sting just sputtered, as if submerged before his gills had extended, the Earther male held out his hands again, blocking any reply. “And if you were holding back, maybe she thought you feared her too.”
When that silenced Sting completely, Thomas gazed upward thoughtfully, one forefinger tapping at his chin. “Although I wouldn’t have thought you were holding back at all, after last night…”
It was at that point that Sting had departed the Wavercrest abode.
Evens’ sidelong glance at his trench coat and apparently suspicious bare feet had only worsened Sting’s temper. At least the Cretarni had only ever wanted to kill him, not slyly judge him.
Now he had everything he needed to repair the Diatom, to lift it out of the lake where it had crashed and back among the stars where it belonged. By the time he retrofit the components, the data gel would be replenished enough to maintain the ship’s equilibrium systems. Taking him out of this puddle of misery and back to the black…
He glowered at the Earther male. “What payment do you require for these parts?”
“Take them,” Even said. “They cost me nothing to acquire and have done me no good.” Then he peered at Sting. “Although now that you mention it…”
Sting grunted. He’d seen this sort of dealing when Coriolis had tried to requisition much needed supplies from the Tritonesse and later when he sought to negotiate with the council representatives who would determine Tritona’s fate. There was a good reason Sting had kept silent during those discussions. “What do you want?”
Evens winced, as if Sting had bitten him. As if anything Sting had ever bitten—besides Lana—had lived to complain about it. “It’s not a price, exactly,” he protested. “Just a favor. Not even a favor, because I believe it would help us both.”
“Is it edible?”
Evens opened his mouth and then shut it again slowly. “No? Is that…the main consideration?”
Sting gave him back one of those indecipherable shoulder twitches. “Tell me this thing that we both want.”
“Miss Lana trusted me enough to make this shop a collection point for people seeking answers to questions with out-of-this-world answers.” He shuttered his eyes. “Or, she half trusted me.” He waved one hand negligently. “Regardless, now that I know the greater truth about Tritona’s search for its lost descendants, I believe I can do so much more.” He stood taller. “There are so many here who’ve never found the place they truly belong. They deserve a place. And while that place may not be Tritona in the end, they could definitely start here.” He spread his hands wide. “In the grand reopening of the Big Sky Intergalactic Dating Agency, now under new management.”
Sting lowered his chin to sight the other male in his sonar. “This is your idea?”
“Your man Thomas continues to use the Wavercrest fortune to dredge up weirdlings who would make good candidates for emigration beyond this planet. I serve as the intermediary, identifying those who would thrive on your world versus who would be better suited for other places.” He smiled wide. “Sunset Falls could be the premier destination for extraterrestrial love connections. All it needs is an extraterrestrial entrepreneurial spirit.”
“Which is you,” Sting noted.
“And,” Evens continued blithely, “an initial infusion of startup cash, which is the Wavercrest Foundation, and a built-in initial clientele, which is you all on Tritona.”
Sting stared at Evens. He survived worse floods, but this particular flush of sewage was too much to breathe.
But even though he’d always avoided these sorts of decisions, he was the only one here. “I know nothing of dating,” he admitted. “But the Sunset Falls outpost closed due to mismanagement, scandal, and heartbreak. Some may not believe that it should be reopened.”
“I know scandal and heartbreak,” Evens said. “And I also know one of the purest forms of energy is promoting passionate encounters to launch new beginnings across the universe.”
Sting tilted his head. His one passionate encounter with Lana had seemed to arrow directly to an unfortunate end. “That’s what dating is?”
Evens smiled. “I would be delighted to sign you up for my introductory course: Are you looking for love in all the far places?” The Earther male waggled his fingers, although there was nothing in front of him. “I envision a series of courses and quizzes to really hone in
on the best matches.”
Sting eyed him sourly. “And how much will those cost?”
“Nothing compared to the pure joy of finding true love out there when none of the billions here would do.” When Sting continued to stare at him, Evens shrugged again. “And also, nothing for you, if you would like to be my first beta tester.”
Sting opened his mouth to vent his fury upon the hapless male, only to shock himself by saying, “Yes.”
Evens looked equally surprised. “Really?” He recovered more quickly than Sting. “Wonderful., I’ll have to pull everything together right away—”
“And the test shall be this,” Sting told him. “I will match with Lana.”
Evens’ eyebrows lifted so high that his cheeks went up too, half closing his eyes from below. “Well, the compatibility quizzes won’t be quite that specific. It’ll be more of a range—”
“Yes. A range of one. Lana is that one.” He marched toward the front door.
“That’s not exactly how these tests work.” The shopkeeper trailed behind him, still babbling like fast water over loose stones although Sting was no longer listening.
At the portal, he paused and wheeled around. The trench coat flared open around him in a way that must’ve dramatically revealed how unquestionably right and fitting he was as Lana’s to-be mate, judging from the way that Evens’ mouth fell farther open yet no more words emerged. “I must warn you,” he started.
“Oh yes, please,” Evens muttered. “I need another one of those.”
“I have been tested many times, and the results have been blood and death and destruction.” When Evens blanched, Sting widened his stance so there was no place for the hapless Earther to retreat. “But I will undergo one more test. For Lana. Lana is the one,” he repeated. “That will be your finding. Otherwise I will know your tests are tricks, meant to cheat and lie, that your attempt to reopen the Big Sky Intergalactic Dating Agency is destined to be a failure, and the outpost—and you—must be bombed out of existence from orbit.”
Evens flinched. “Wait. I don’t think—”
“That should not be a problem,” Sting informed him. “The mating instinct is not about thinking. It’s about hunting and claiming. I await your first test that shows Lana is my mate.”
He stalked out the door and stuffed himself into the waiting vehicle. Across the concrete pathway, a couple Earther females paused to look at him, so he quickly tucked his bare webbed feet into the car.
Perhaps if he were willing to abide by the results of the test Evens suggested, he might learn that others would be compatible, maybe even those females right there. But he’d been engineered and bred and trained and drilled and experienced in choosing his target, never faltering. He never faltered once he had his aim, and he never failed.
Always before the price of such failure had been death. This time was no different, though the target was so much smaller and more delicate. And had to be sacrificed willingly.
Lana’s heart.
He stopped by the lake afterward and took some of the parts he’d scavenged from Evens’ shop out to the Diatom. The revitalized gel was reproducing well. There’d be enough synaptic connection to sync the systems Lana had zapped when she crashed. One more day, perhaps.
For all the impassive stillness he’d learned—sometimes at the sharp end of a Tritonesse whip—the sense of time running out made his nerves twitch, as if even from a distance Lana was sending tiny jolts through him. Through the gathering shadows, he hastened back to the Wavercrest abode. He needed to see her again.
But at the door, Thomas informed him that Lana and her mother were still sequestered, as they had been all day. The guardsman’s gaze was steady. “Can I get you something to eat while you wait?”
Sting shook his head. “I do not require daily feeding.”
Thomas’s lips twitched. “Maybe not require, sir. But perhaps it’s better not to wander a closed world feeling even slightly hungry? I could at least prepare a snack.”
After a moment, Sting gave a reluctant nod. “I would not want to eat something inappropriate,” he conceded. “Thank you for the reminder. And for food.”
Thomas inclined his head. “Come with me to the kitchen. Miss Lana tells me you might be interested in a baking lesson.”
Sting straightened. “She spoke to you about me?” He tagged close behind the other male toward the inner room of the abode.
The guardsman glanced back at him, one eyebrow slightly arched. “Miss Lana has said…many things about you.”
Something fragile and bright and unguarded flashed in Sting like the fluorescent fins of Lana’s seahorses. Maybe he was hungrier than he’d thought.
Thomas began assembling so many items, some from a cabinet full of cold air, others from regular cabinets. Boxes and bags and other strangely shaped packages… Thomas turned to another waist-height cabinet and pushed a button and flames shot up!
Sting’s eye coverings flickered uneasily. “Can’t we just…eat what is right there?”
“We could. Milk, sugar, cocoa”—he pointed to each item as he spoke and put them in a container over the flame—“you could eat all those right now. And all would be tasty. You could even eat the raw eggs.” He indicated the convoluted box that cradled hard white shells. “But baking is about change, about alchemy, bringing different elements together in new ways.” He cracked the shell and separated the interior textures then added two white powders to the rich yellows. “Cornstarch thickens, and salt makes the tongue come alive.” He paused as he added a rich brown liquid, dark as Lana’s gaze and as sweetly scented as her skin.
Sting leaned forward attentively. “What is that?”
“Vanilla, a flavoring spice.”
“Salt and vanilla. These things remind me of her.”
Thomas smiled at him. “It’s true I’ve only ever known Miss Lana to be salty with you.”
Coming forward onto his toes, Sting stared at the other male. “I am pleased.”
“Ah… Yes. Anyway, with baking, heat and time and attention all matter.” He added the hot mixture to the cool, mixing gently, before putting it all back over the flame.
“It’s bubbling,” Sting noted.
Thomas nodded. “Smell.”
Sting leaned beside him, inhaling the dense and intricate fragrance. “Eat it now?”
“Not yet,” the guardsman chided. “Patience is part of baking too.”
“I can lie quiet and shift my breath without bubbles for a very long time and still have the power to swim through the night to kill my enemies.”
Thomas winced—perhaps he had burned himself on the fire. “Chocolate pudding doesn’t take quite that long.”
Under Sting’s watchful eye, the pudding thickened and the scent deepened, the same delicious way that blood had fed him before he’d been released from his cage. Thomas poured the concoction into disappointingly tiny containers of etched glass—so tiny that even his frail, non-webbed hand nearly swallowed them. He topped each with a tidy swirl of pure white fluff that he whipped up from another white liquid.
Sting let out a disgruntled grunt. “So little?”
Thomas gave him a look. “Even small things can be very pleasing when savored properly, wouldn’t you say?”
After a moment’s consideration, Sting returned the Earther’s bland stare. “I say you are teaching me more than chocolate pudding.”
With a laugh, Thomas arranged three of the glasses on a tray along with even more ridiculously tiny spoons. “And they said you were just a mindless killing machine.” He shook his head. “I know Tritona was at war for a very long time, and that you particularly waged more than your fair share of it. But I hope you can appreciate that not every mission needs to be pursued with the same…brute force.” He neatly folded three squares of fabric, pleating and knotting. “The cocoa mixture must be melted and smooth, taking care not to burn. The egg mixture must be stirred until silky, not beaten and broken.” He handed Sting the tray. “The fire t
ransforms it, true, but only after you’ve taken the utmost care with the finest ingredients. And the whipped cream provides contrast between bittersweet complexity and simple indulgence.” He patted Sting’s shoulder. “Now, take that tray upstairs to the music room. I told the ladies I’d be bringing them dessert later, so they’ll be expecting this.”
Sting looked down at the tray. Though Thomas had somehow managed to bend the white squares of cloth into the fanciful shapes of seahorses, which was mesmerizing, the small glasses of pudding still seemed an insufficient offering. “I don’t know that Lana will want to see me,” he confessed. “We parted on crossing tides.”
Thomas patted his shoulder again, harder this time as if to propel him into motion. “That is why I’m giving you chocolate.”
As much as he trusted the other male, the glasses were so very, very tiny. With a nod, he spun on his heel, flaring the trench coat again.
“Ah, one moment, sir,” Thomas called. “One more quick lesson, if you don’t mind…”
Chapter 12
Lana sat on the plush pile carpet, eyes closed, her back against her mother’s knees while strong fingers worked through her hair, shaping her thick curls. Old-school tunes from Roxette crooned through the very nice jukebox—almost as high-tech as the Diatom—which had been her mother’s compromise between the classical music selections and the same lady death metal that had been on the SUV sound system.
“You put this album on when you did my hair before prom,” Lana murmured over the mournful pop reminiscence of how “it must’ve been love”.
For an instant, her mother’s deft hands faltered, tugging at her scalp. “I’d forgotten. I played it because ‘Listen To Your Heart’ was the theme at my prom. I didn’t mean—”
Reaching up, Lana squeezed her mother’s hand. “It’s over now,” she said in the worst Swedish accent ever.
Her mom snorted. “Are you making fun of my music?’
“Yes?”
With another little tug at her hair, her mom laughed. “Well, it was the nineties, so fair enough.”
