to Gracie when she kicks her legs so that they rest over one arm of my chair, and she falls back so that she’s resting her upper body on the other arm. “I already know what you’re going to say,” she informs me. “You’re going to boot me out of this spot every time you catch me, blah-blah.”
“Blah... blah?” I ask in wonder. “Have you no fear of a slow death? I could pluck all of your limbs off and toss you off the highest wall of this canyon, you nonnative hornache.”
She brushes away my statement with unconcerned fingers. “You can’t protect this spot all day and would you really deny a seat to a woman in my condition?” she asks, a deceptively large smile on her havoc-wreaking face.
“Would that condition be whole and as yet unbroken?” I tip my horns. “Yes.”
“I’m pregnant,” Gracie says, like she’s informing me of something I don’t know.
“A female can still whelp if her arms and legs are crushed. And you, female,” I warn, voice beginning to vibrate with my irritation, “you’re about to find out how.”
Isla surprises me by placing her hand as high on my shoulder as she can reach. “You have to try to be nicer, Bash. Do me a favor and don’t do anything: I’ll be right back. I think I know something that can help.”
***
When she returns, she’s brought me a small baked treat humans refer to as a cookie, which looks like nothing more than a disc-shaped Narwari treat that’s had three black-backed beetles get baked in it, and two drinks in clay mugs. She forces the treat on me first, and although I’m reluctant, I grunt agreement that it is surprisingly decent. I don’t say it, but I suppose it’s even good. I finish it in two bites. Then Isla is focused on getting me to take the mug she brought specifically for me. Humans favor mugs. They go nowhere without them and are constantly pressing their mouths to their mug rims, eternally sipping at their nutrient-heavy lifeforce liquid. In the mornings, you almost can’t find a human who doesn’t have such a mug attached to their hand. Hobs set up tables specifically for the women to set their drinking vessels on, stored upside down to keep out rock dust.
And before me, looking so sincere, is Isla, thrusting one such mug out to me. “Here! I have a feeling it’d probably take a crate of Jose Cuervo to loosen you up, but still—you have to try this. Coffee is magic. Maybe a hit of caffeine will do amazing things for you.” Then, to herself she mutters, “Either that, or you’ll be able to kill us all hyper fast…”
“I could manage that anyway. Without a boosting drink.” Scowling down at the dark, questionable liquid, I inhale. The rich, earthy scent is a familiar one, and surprisingly pleasant. Of course I’m well aware of the necessary addiction that humans have for this drink, and as I’ve said, I’ve seen evidence of the same. We’re told that humans need the nutrient this drink provides—java, joe, battery acid, their liquid drug goes by many names—but as a Rakhii, I do not rely on any such thing, and I’m loath to gain an addiction to a drink. Loath to gain an addiction to anything.
I move my stare to Isla.
And for some reason—perhaps it’s the so-hopeful look in her luminous eyes—I find myself taking a long pull of the coffee, simply because some part of me wants to… please her.
I scowl. And not only at my system’s interest in pleasing Isla. It’s this scum-awful ‘drink.’
“Oh my teveking Creator,” I grimace. “Isla, no. Why would you look forward to this miserable brew?”
CHAPTER 9
ISLA
“You don't like it?” I say with disbelief.
“Of course he doesn’t like it,” a girl named Mandi mutters. “It’s not the blood of crying women.”
Bash must have ears like a bat. They prick upright, and he snaps his fingers at her. “I would drink that.”
All of the women in our vicinity edge away.
“You really don’t like coffee?” I can’t help but repeat. “And ‘miserable?’ Really? Huh. Maybe your miserable is my awesome.”
“Hm,” Bash grunts. Then he turns his mug over like it contains poison, and dumps it.
“Hey!” I shout, shocked.
He grabs my own mug right out from where my short arm is clamping it and proceeds to turn it over too, pouring coffee on the ground.
“You just…” I stare at the ground, at the kinda cool-looking swirly reddish-purple rock striation patterns (which