Alien Bride, page 10
part #2 of The Alien Series
“My clothes are fine, thank you very much,” I grit out as I lead the way to the door. We walk at a quickened pace down the halls in tense silence. Slowly, I start to notice more and more Islerians sharing the walkways with us until they are practically bustling with bodies. Other alien creatures join the menagerie as well, and I try not to stare at all the unfamiliar beings. More than a few sets of eyes dart my way, and I imagine to them I look just as alien as they do to me.
Eventually we get to a line of people all trying to bottleneck into the same door. I cross my arms, ready to patiently await my turn, but for some reason Kye and I are immediately brought up to the front. I give the aliens we pass apologetic looks for cutting in front of them. Two big double doors glide open and we are ushered inside.
The room is obviously some type of ballroom. Waiters swerve in and out of throngs of people, freshening their drinks and offering hors d’oeuvres. There is even a band playing in the far corner of the room. I take in the “event” Kye has brought me to—including the fact that all the attendees seem to be dressed in formal attire… and here I am, wearing a crop top and the alien version of parachute pants. I can feel my entire body flush with a mixture of embarrassment and anger. I swing around to face Kye, but just before I give him a piece of my mind, a crewman announces our arrival.
“Ambassador Kye Amara of the planet Isleria and his wife,” is our lopsided introduction. His wife. I grind my teeth. They didn’t even bother to name me, other than to establish me as property to this colossal jerk. Kye attempts to lead me forward by the small of my back, but when his hand touches my skin I wrench away, glaring at him. I notice he has this glazed and distant demeanor suddenly, like he’s too cool to care… I recognize it as the same facade from our very first encounter on the Makaan ship. It’s like he has adopted some other persona for the benefit of anyone who might be watching.
“What the hell, Kye?” I hiss at him.
“Shh, shh, shh,” he hushes me in a soothing tone that one might use to calm a child, while still trying to encourage me deeper into the room. “Clearly you are upset. Why not simply tell me why and we can find a way to move beyond it?” he says quietly to me.
“You’ve got to be kidding me, right? Um, how about the fact that you let me come to a freaking formal affair dressed like I’m on my way to a slumber party?” Oh my god, this man is going to make me lose my mind.
“I specifically remember asking you to change more than once, yet you refused,” he states without looking at me. Instead, his eyes scan the party and the guests. He returns nods and truncated bows here and there anytime he locks eyes with another guest.
“You just told me to change!” I whisper-yell. “You could have told me why you wanted me to change. I thought you were just being rude!” I huff.
“I did not want to set you off by further pressing the issue. It’s not always easy to tell what will anger you, human.”
“For future reference: this. This angers me.”
“You are self-conscious about your attire, you do not need to be. You are in a union with me, no men will be looking at you this evening,” he says, looking pleased with himself, as if his reasoning will pacify me.
“Thanks. Somehow I miraculously feel all better!” I hiss sarcastically at him as quietly as I can, trying not to draw further attention to myself.
“Good, I’m glad to hear it. I have some colleagues to speak with, so if you’ll excuse me…” he says, already turning away from me.
“Wait! What? Now you’re just going to leave me here? To what? Mingle?” I ask, feeling incensed and confused as to why he even brought me at all. He turns back to face me. Holding me gently at my elbow, he brings his face in close to my ear. Both of us are careful not to engage the roofie spikes running along his jaw. It’s a strange and oddly intimate stance, and I wager it is less for me than it is for the appearance he is trying to give off for the crowd. And that really annoys me.
“No,” he whispers so close to my ear that I can feel the warmth of his breath. Despite myself I feel a shiver run up my arms. “I thought you would like to speak with your friends.” He motions toward a back corner of the ballroom. Lifting my gaze, I suddenly see the women I was imprisoned with, standing awkwardly away from the crowds. My mouth falls open at the sight of them. Kye pulls back a bit to appraise me.
“Would you like me to escort you over?” he asks, and something about his tone reveals that this time he is sincerely showing awareness to my emotional state. I resent it a bit, because it reminds me he is capable of not being a jerk 24/7.
“Huh? Um no. I got it,” I mutter. My mouth goes dry and I feel nervous for some odd reason as I watch the other women.
“Alessandra, we are not here for the sheer pleasure of it. It was required of us both. This is a gathering of Islerian officials. They are here to meet you and the others to help determine what should be done in response to the Makaan’s actions against you. Please, be on your best behavior tonight and if possible, do not speak of your time with the Makaan.” His final words cause me to rip my gaze from my fellow captives. It feels like he just poured a bucket of ice water over my head.
“I’m sorry, what?” I ask stiffly. How one person can transition so seamlessly between kindness and idiocy is beyond me. Does he really not get how offensive he is being?
“Save it for the appropriate time and place. Remember, you will have a chance to be heard in court and not everyone here will have your best interest in mind,” he warns, and it makes me wonder whose interests he has in mind. I jerk from his grip and walk away without sparing him a backwards glance.
On the way over to the women I self-consciously try to straighten my hair. I didn’t even look in the mirror when I left the room, I lament. I know it’s a silly thought, because we all spent weeks naked in front of one another. But still, I can see they are all wearing attire appropriate to the circumstance and they each look lovely in their own right. I’m the only odd duck. Seems like everyone else’s spaceship spouses were kind enough to help them prepare for this.
When I get closer, Purple Barbie’s eyes lock onto mine and she motions for the attention of the others. My steps falter as all eyes turn towards me. Deer Woman sees me, and the second recognition lights up her face she bounds forward to wrap me in an embrace. Purple Barbie follows suit, placing a hand on my chest in some type of alien greeting that I clumsily mimic out of respect. Soon all the women surround me and we share a tearful group hug.
“How have you all been?” I ask, as we close ranks in our own little circle at the party. Purple Barbie has a disgruntled look on her ever-watchful face as she scans the room protectively, but the other women all appear happy.
“Well enough,” Purple Barbie replies for the group. “We have not seen you in many days, we worried for you,” she tells me, but with no judgment in her voice.
“Sorry, yeah. I’ve been having a hard time adjusting. These people are…” I struggle to find a way to say how bizarre they are without offending anyone. “Well, it’s not home. I haven’t gotten used to it yet,” I tell them.
“Your mate treats you well?” she asks protectively.
“Pfft!” I scoff. “Well enough, I suppose. I mean, he hasn’t hurt me or treated me like a slave, so that’s a big improvement.”
“But he does not please you beyond that?” she asks plainly.
“I don’t know? He’s… annoying, but it’s a necessary evil, right? I can tough it out until they take us home.”
“I have been through three already,” she says gruffly as she eyes the Islerians in the room with no small amount of dissatisfaction.
“Wait, what?” I can’t help but laugh, “You traded yours in for a new model?” I ask. Hah! One is all I can handle, but good for Purple Barbie for getting an upgrade!
“Hm,” she grunts. “They are a weak species, and only a warrior may claim me. So’Leke is on her second mate,” she says, nodding toward Deer Woman.
“Oh, I never learned your names!” I tell them, almost surprised at the realization. The monikers I gave them in my mind were flimsy, I know, but it was all I thought of them as for so long.
Purple Barbie does the honors of leading us in introductions. “I am Khalil. This is Evwen”—she motions toward Blue Tentacle-Haired Lady—“So’Leke”—the Deer Woman—“and Luca”—Tattooed Girl. Hmm, I was way off.
“It’s wonderful to finally meet you all officially,” I tell them, finding the simple act of learning these women’s names to be an emotional experience. I feel so deeply connected to each of them, considering what we went through together. It’s almost a familial bond we share, something only blood or a deeply impactful experience can bring about.
I take a moment to look to each of them, and we hold each other’s gazes. Words don’t seem to be necessary. I get all choked up and swipe my tears away, determined to savor this time with my girls while enjoying something like freedom here on the Islerian ship. It’s not quite the freedom I had on Earth, but also nothing like the caged animal scenario we endured on the Makaan’s ship. No… this is something different entirely, I think to myself as I happen to lock eyes with Kye from across the room.
He is talking with other Islerians but is only partially engaged with them. His eyes watch me with a playful glint. There is a challenge there, ever present when he looks at me. I notice the hint of a smirk on his face, one that tells everyone in the room he has every right to be as full of himself as he is. It makes me want to march right up to him and put him in his place. Is it weird that my heart beats faster at the thought? Like a spike in my adrenaline.
Kye takes a sip from his Vhett, or Pana, or whatever the hell it is, but his eyes never leave mine. I feel a flush blossoming on my neck and chest, causing me to frown deeply at him, but it only seems to make the mischief in his eyes dance a little wilder. How is it he can steal my attention from the only people on this ship I care about? What is this perverse game we are playing at? Why am I so drawn to him? I mean, he’s a total jerk! He thinks he can piss me off and five minutes later all will be forgotten. Oh no, I’m going to make him pay for leaving me in bed this morning, waiting for him to return, and for bringing me to a formal affair in freaking lounge attire. I feel a smile spread across my lips, betraying my irritation. Argh, and to my dismay, his purple-hued alien eyes twinkle when he sees it! Smartass. He thinks he just won this round, no doubt.
Suddenly a woman steps in front of him, blocking our view of one another. She is wearing a long and sparkling gown. Her snow-white hair is braided to the side, revealing the pearly skin of her bare back. She sidles up close to Kye, and I see her put her hand on his arm in a universal gesture of flirtation. Whatever. I roll my eyes and turn my full attention back to my girls.
“So… does anyone find their Islerian mate adequate or is the whole species lacking?” I ask and get three simultaneous answers: I am more than pleased, I find the pheromones enthralling, and they are all lacking.
“Oh my, that’s too funny. What about you, So’Leke? You traded yours in, what was wrong with him?”
“Our inner light did not align. He would never be for me, nor I for him,” she explains, like it makes perfect sense. “But my new mate is an ideal match.”
“So three out of five are happy. Not too bad, I’m glad at least some of us are,” I say, and Khalil nods in agreement, crossing her muscular arms in front of her. A waiter comes by with that sticky sweet drink Islerians seem to love so much. All the girls frown at it. See, Ara, it is gross, I think to myself.
“Hey, you got anything else? Something not so sweet?” I ask. The waiter nods and scurries off, quickly returning with a tray of glasses filled with a deep red colored beverage. We all pick up a glass.
“Thank you,” I tell him and tentatively take a sip, expecting it to be something like red wine, based on the color, but no. It is heavy and rich, but the burn it leaves in its wake is more akin to a fine hard liquor. Khalil gulps hers down in one mouthful.
“Another,” she tells the waiter, and he runs off again. Before he can return, a group of Islerian men approach us. Khalil noticeably stiffens.
“Greetings, ladies, allow me to introduce myself. I am Ambassador Loret. How are you enjoying the festivities?”
We all shift uncomfortably in our places. Honestly, whoever thought we’d want a party filled with a bunch of alien diplomats was an idiot. Probably the same idiot who thought a spa day would be ideal in our first five minutes of rescue. I sip at my drink to keep from saying anything rude—these people have offered to take us home, after all.
“The music is terrible,” Khalil tells him bluntly, filling the awkward silence. I do a double take, but Ambassador Loret laughs in a good-natured way.
“I am sorry to hear that. What type of music do you enjoy?” he asks, and his expression seems like he is sincerely looking for a solution to this problem.
“My people use music for celebration and dance. You cannot dance to this darupshe,” she comments gruffly.
A man beside Loret steps forward now, “You most certainly can dance to this, my wife. Allow me to show you,” he says as he gives a graceful bow—like Kye often does, before offering a hand to her. Khalil levels her gaze at her Islerian husband. She doesn’t take his hand, and when he continues to hold it out to her she lets out a fearsome growl. His back snaps straight and he pulls his hand away quickly before excusing himself.
“He is no warrior,” she observes, as her husband slinks away through the crowd. Based on that display, I’d have to agree with her.
“Is our music really so different from your own?” Loret inquires, shifting the subject away from Khalil’s awkward encounter with her latest husband. The other women all confirm that the music on their home worlds is held at a faster beat and is for the purpose of dancing.
“Islerian music is… different, but we do have styles similar to this on my planet,” I admit to him.
“And that would be Earth. Am I right?” Loret questions.
“You know my planet?” I ask excitedly.
“Sadly no, I recently read the casefile on your unique introduction to our society,” he explains.
“The casefile?”
“A report generated the night of your recovery by Ambassador Kye’s administration,” he tells me. I can’t help but feel strange about a casefile with my name on it floating around in outer space. It feels so… bureaucratic and impersonal.
“That’s funny, I didn’t realize there was any information on our experiences available to anyone yet,” I mention casually.
“Your personal experiences were not specifically covered, though I am sure you all experienced quite a traumatic event. The report contained primarily demographic information.”
Hmm, so it is impersonal. “Thank you for the validation, Ambassador Loret. That is the first I have received since joining the Islerians, and belated as it is, it is welcomed nonetheless.”
“Have no doubt that the Islerian people will all feel very deeply for your plight when they finally learn of it. Though I do have to say”—he leans in close to me, as if readying to share a secret—“that your lack of validation up until this point is of little shock to me considering the company you have been in.” He stares at me for a moment or two longer, as if deciding if he should continue or not. “If you find yourself unhappy here, I am not in a union at the moment… I would be willing to be your steward until Isleria. If you needed another option,” he adds, still speaking in a low voice so that none of the lingering bodies nearby can hear us.
I can’t help but eye Loret suspiciously. His gaze studies me while I try to determine his motives. Loret definitely isn’t giving me creeper vibes. His eyes look sincere and I see true concern etched in his handsome features. It also seems like he is waiting for a response.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” is all I can think to say, before I add, “thank you.”
Loret smiles and shifts out of privacy mode, speaking loudly enough now to include the group again. “Tell me,” he asks, focusing in on me in a way I imagine all politicians are trained to do. “What is your home like?”
Nothing like here, I immediately want to say, but I bite my tongue. What is my home like? I wonder to myself. Instinctively, I look towards the band. Sure, there’s the job I left behind, the friends. I have no boyfriend to speak of and my family is long gone, but still… when I look to the band I think of home and I’m reminded of who I was before all this.
My eyes scan their instruments for familiarity. There’s an odd-looking bass, a set of metal, multi-surfaced drums, a more modern-looking example of the harp that Kye has in his room, and an oddly shaped metal thing that the user holds like a violin, scratching sounds out of it with a giant needle-like object as the bow. There is a microphone, but no one is singing. Front and center is an alien that looks more dinosaur than human, or Islerian for that matter. He stands in front of an electronic device that reminds me of a synthesizer machine.
