Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 85553 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 428(@200wpm)___ 342(@250wpm)___ 285(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85553 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 428(@200wpm)___ 342(@250wpm)___ 285(@300wpm)
But the female must notice my skeptical look. “We have friends that used to be fighters and are now living peacefully with us.”
Peacefully…? I doubt that very much. Likely they are playing a long game and this foolish creature has mistaken it for peace.
I decide to test that theory. The cold makes my jaw clench, makes it difficult to spit words out. “What if…we…don’t want…to stay?”
She has an answer for this, too. “We’ll get you set up on your feet and give you enough food and clothing, and then you can go. No one’s keeping anyone captive. You’re free to do as you like. But we hope you stay and become part of our people. Our family.”
Family?
Fools. I am on a planet of fools.
Rubbing my hands near the warmth of the fire, I’m trying to keep from laughing aloud at the female speaking to the group. She thinks this place is friendly and kind?
Clearly she has no idea what is going on. Then again, neither do I. Is that part of this particular game, then? Are we to locate some sort of data pad with rules? Is that the first piece of the puzzle? I consider this.
The female with the glowing eyes continues to talk to the prizes—the soft ones that are clearly not here to fight—and reassures them. She tells them how she woke up here confused but the blue male with the horns helped her out. I eye the two of them together, and it is clear she is his prize.
So that is his method. He has tricked the female into coming to him. Clever. Very clever. I shall have to watch that one closely, see if I can learn his tricks.
“We don’t have a lot of technology here. We have to hunt to survive,” the glowing-eyed female says.
I prick to attention at that.
Hunting?
Hunting I know well. There is a game here after all.
Chapter
Three
SKARR
As if we are all not in competition with one another, we are given warm blankets to wrap in and handed hot food. I eat mine quickly, the heat of the stew in my belly doing more for my stiff limbs than the near-useless blanket. As it grows late, the females cry more and are comforted. They pile together to “share warmth” in a lean-to crafted for them, and the female in charge goes to join them. I wait to see if they will copulate with one another—a trick some females do to distract a particularly vicious audience—and I’m disappointed they do not. They seem to be sleeping.
If they are combatants and I am wrong, they are the worst combatants ever.
The other splices and I remain near the fire. So does the blue-skinned male with the horns. He watches us with a knowing gaze, and I suspect he is very aware of the game that is being played here. We will need to tease answers from him. We all wait for a signal, but there is nothing.
The male—I’rec—speaks up after a time, stoking the fire with a crude spear. “I have seen your kind before,” he says to the nearest splice. “Fighters. Glad-taters?”
I was right about a game being played here. It takes everything I have not to beat my chest with smug pride. Do they think they shall fool Skarr? I am on to them.
The moden answers the blue one’s question. “Does it matter? We are here now, as you say.”
“It matters because you are fighters,” the horned one points out. “And you are looking at my mate with interested eyes. I am telling you now that she is mine and if you so much as put a finger on her, I will gut you and drag your innards across the valley.”
I laugh, because this language I understand. Do not speak to me of helping hands and living peacefully. Tell me which female is yours so I know what you will fight over. This, I appreciate. And because he speaks so plainly of his interests, I decide I will speak plainly of mine. “There are many females here. Who do we fight to be given one as a prize? You?”
He shakes his head. “You do not have to fight anyone. These females are not slaves. They are free to come and go as they please. Just as you are.”
“Then how do we win females?” the gray one asks. “If we do not fight?”
“You do not win them at all. Your khui decides. It will choose a mate for you. It chose mine for me, and it will choose one for you, too.” The fur-wearing mesakkah-hybrid is clearly trying to be patient with us, as if we are misunderstanding.
One of the cat males rubs his chin. “So we fight this khui? And it rewards us with strong, healthy females to rut?”
“No. Let me explain…” He pauses when someone’s stomach growls. “More food?”