Fugitive (7 page)

   Her body contracted uncontrollably for several astonishing minutes, after which Drusilla lay dazed and somewhat dumbfounded by what had just transpired. Covered in a light sheen of sweat and blinking hard, Drusilla tried to focus again on her surroundings. She'd never gotten quite so carried away before; had never had such a wild, erotic fantasy—about oral sex, no less!—and all of this from hearing some little kitty purring in the jungle?

   The light was still on, and the blanket had slid off of her body. Anyone watching through the window could have seen her—perhaps even the man of her dreams. "Let him see," she chuckled. "Maybe then I'll get lucky."

   Then she decided that there was no point in making it too easy, or to court disaster, so she told the lights to turn off and headed toward the bedroom. The light from the moon lit her way, but as she went, she glanced over at the window that faced the patio. There, near the lower portion of the pane, was a pair of glowing, feline eyes. Letting out an involuntary yelp, she scurried toward the bedroom and closed the door behind her.

   Drusilla was badly shaken but managed to inject some degree of logic into the situation. Those eyes had not been those of a Baradan, or an eltran. It was undoubtedly some curious jungle creature that had been drawn to the light. Yes, that was it, she told herself reas suringly. Just a sweet little kitten. There was nothing dangerous out there. Lester promised her—hell, Ralph had promised her!—nothing but beautiful birds and no mosquitoes, and so far, it had all been true. And there
had to be animals living in the jungle; it wouldn't b
e much of a jungle without them, would it? She had just been surprised and startled at being observed during such a private moment. She climbed into bed and, in spite of her fears, promptly fell asleep.

***

The lights going out so abruptly had caught him unawares, but Manx
had
been watching, and though being separated by glass was quite effective at dousing his ardor—meaning his erection—it didn't do anything to stop his mental reaction. She thought
that
was an orgasm? Manx laughed softly. She wouldn't pleasure herself again if he ever mated with her—wouldn't need to—and neither would he. He'd keep going as long as he could and then do it again, and again, and again. And she would know joy.

   Suddenly desperate to fill his head with her scent, Manx circled the house and found the chaise lounge she'd been lying on earlier. He caught a faint whiff of her, but it wasn't enough. Even so, he couldn't bring himself to leave that place, and lying down where she had been, he slept.

Chapter 4

THE NEXT MORNING DRUSILLA AWOKE WONDERING WHAT kind of aphrodisiac Klog had used to spike her tea. "I wasn't even drunk," she grumbled, throwing off her blanket. "Must be that purple sky… some weird form of ultraviolet light that bounces off the retina and triggers all sorts of wild hormones." It wasn't much, but it was as good an explanation as any. She was, after all, reportedly the first Terran to visit Barada—at least, for any length of time—and this might be a side effect no one could have predicted. Nice side effect, she decided—though it was possible that the cheesecake had been responsible.

   Yawning, she combed back her disheveled locks as she crossed to the window to gaze out at the lake. The sight before her should have triggered all kinds of spontaneous orgasms because there were now eight incredibly beautiful birds wading in the water. Two of the orange variety she'd already seen, three that were an iridescent teal, and the rest were red with yellow-tipped feathers and looked like they were on fire. "Oh… my…
God,"
she whispered.

   Somehow managing to keep a lid on her excite ment, Drusilla crept down the stairs, opening the door at the bottom manually to avoid startling the birds. She took one step and waited. Then another… and another. The birds continued to fish without so much as a glance in her direction, and soon, she was walking barefoot in the warm sand. Klog hadn't smoothed it yet, and her footprints from the evening before were still visible—along with another set of prints much larger than her own.

   Her gasp of surprise startled the birds, but only three of them actually flew off. The rest remained, seeming to decide that she posed no threat to them, while Drusilla knelt slowly to examine the prints. Although indistinct, they looked surprisingly human. The Baradans all had flipper-like feet, and though it was possible that some other land animal had feet like a Terran primate, she knew it was unlikely. Still, like the purring and the glowing eyes, there had to be a simple, logical explana tion for it. Drusilla knew very little about the other life forms that inhabited this world, and, for all she knew, these could have been the bird's footprints—after all, she'd never seen their feet.

***

Manx watched from the shelter of the woods and was momentarily delighted that Drusilla hadn't bothered to dress. Then he heard her gasp and, as she knelt down, he realized what she had seen and cursed himself for his carelessness, knowing that he had left a trail of footprints leading to and from the house. He was normally cautious in the extreme and rarely made mistakes that could get him captured or killed, but she had affected him so strongly that habits of half a lifetime had been forgotten.

   Manx knew that if Drusilla questioned the Baradans, she would be told that the prints were not those of any indigenous species. She would become suspicious and wary—perhaps not even trusting him if he risked a bare faced introduction. Zef could help with that—he could at least vouch for Manx's character. Though, upon further reflection, Manx decided that having the eltran vouch for him would be akin to having your worst enemy recom mend a good doctor—especially if Drusilla disliked Zef as much as everyone else did.

***

While Manx was puzzling over the question of intro ductions, Drusilla had decided that with footprints like that around, she had no desire to be caught without her clothes. Still moving slowly and deliberately to avoid further startling the birds, she went back inside and yelled for Klog. Sniffing the air, she realized he was already fixing breakfast—without an order of any kind—and, better still, was making waffles.

   "Are you making those for someone else?" she asked curiously.

   Klog buzzed at her and went on with his cooking.

   "How do you do that?" she demanded. "I love waffles with" —she paused, noting what else he had laid out— "butter pecan syrup and baked apples! How could you
possibly
know?"

   Klog ignored this question and, having arranged everything on a plate, topped it with whipped cream, which he squirted out of one of his "fingers."

   "Well, that's certainly impressive," Drusilla remarked. "Do you make mixed drinks too?" Since Klog's beehive shaped "body" was large enough to hold any number of different liquids, she had an idea he could whip up a pretty good margarita if she were to hand him a glass.

Klog once again made a chirping sound.

   "I believe I'll take that as a yes," she said, then added firmly, "Tea. Earl Grey. Hot."

   Klog beeped once, drifted over to the cabinet for a mug, and then poured the piping hot tea from the tip of another finger.

   "Well, I'll be damned!" Drusilla declared as he beeped twice more. "You must have cost a fortune!"

   Klog chirped his reply and floated off to clean the waffle iron.

   What with strange footprints in the sand and big, purring cats lurking nearby, Drusilla donned her robe before sitting down to breakfast, thinking she probably ought to reconsider her intention to swim in the nude. Then she remembered Zef yammering on about the skinny-butt Baradans and decided against it completely.

   She also decided that she should mention to Klog that serving her the kind of meals that stemmed from her deepest, most hedonistic cravings was probably a mistake—unless he wanted to remake all of her clothes in a larger size. Drusilla was petite, but with Klog in charge of the menu, that was likely to change. Still, waffles on her first morning seemed celebratory; she'd wait until later to tell him that a little fresh fruit and toast would be adequate from then on—no matter how much she might want waffles.

   With that thought in mind, Drusilla leaned back in her chair to ponder her life. When was the last time she'd done anything just because she wanted to? It took her a long time to come up with an answer for that, and she realized that, prior to diving into the lake on the previous afternoon, she would have to go back at least several months for the last spontaneous fulfillment of her heart's desire. That, of course, was the day she told Drab Dave that he could go to the drag queen conven tion without her.

   Not that she wouldn't have enjoyed it; her refusal was purely a matter of principle. Dave had been chagrined, but not overly cast down, and had gone on to attend the event with his friend Charles, who had no objection to sharing a room—or a bed—with Dave. By the end of the summer, their ensuing love affair had reached legendary proportions.

   Drusilla sighed deeply, wondering if it was possible for her to find a love as intense as theirs. Enthusiasm was something that had always been lacking among her suitors. They liked her. She liked them. They got along fine but never felt any overwhelming passion—never even held hands in public, let alone exchanged stolen kisses, and even in intimate moments there was a decided lack of fervor. People in films were always falling into each other's arms, kissing hungrily and ripping clothing in their haste, but Drusilla was convinced that that sort of thing never happened in real life—at least, not to her—and if it ever did, Barada was the last place she could expect it to occur. What made it worse was that she had some inkling of how it should feel; she'd always felt a passion for her work, and the discovery of some fabulous new birds always sent her blood racing, but men? Not lately—and possibly not ever.

   Until she had taken the time to design her dream man, that is. She'd felt something the night before that was entirely new to her. Passion. Lust. Excitement. Unfortu nately, he only existed in her mind…

***

Manx had begun his day quite early, spearing fish for breakfast and exchanging news with Zef. Manx was understandably curious about the new tenant, and the garrulous eltran had plenty to tell.

   "Her name's Drusilla," he said without preamble. "Thought you'd want to know."

   Manx didn't bother to deny it—or to admit that he already knew. "How long is she staying?"

   "Three months," Zef replied. "She's from Earth— wherever the hell
that
is! I've never heard of it."

   "Me either," said Manx. "It must be a long way from here."

   "Yeah," Zef agreed. "Lots of lakes there, though—a fuckin' eltran paradise to hear her tell it! Would you believe she's only here to see the birds and paint pictures of them? Ever hear of crap like that before? Stupid thing to do, if you ask me."

   Manx grinned. "She didn't ask you, though—did she?"

   "Aw, hell! Nobody gives a flying fuck what I think— or what I like," Zef grumbled. "Except you."

   "Me?" Manx said with surprise. "I have no idea what you like!"

   "You know I like fish, and you always throw your fish bones back in the lake," Zef protested. "I love fish bones!"

   "Never knew that," Manx admitted. "I was just making sure no one would find the bones and wonder what ate the fish."

   Zef's pectoral fins wobbled. "You mean you weren't doing it just to be nice?"

   Manx shook his head regretfully. "No, Zef. Sorry."

   "Well, if that don't beat all!" Zef exclaimed. "Here I thought I'd finally found a friend and you just turn out to be—"

   "But I am your friend," Manx said reassuringly. "And just to prove it, I'll be sure to tell you when I'm throwing away the bones from now on."

   Zef seemed to think this was a perfectly wonderful demonstration of friendship. "And to prove I'm
your
friend," he said, cocking his head to one side, "I might tell Drusilla there's someone else living around here who'd like to meet her."

   Manx wanted to say yes more than anything—and if he'd been downwind of Drusilla at the time, he might have responded differently—but since he wasn't, he chose to be cautious. "Why don't you talk to her some more before you tell her about me," Manx suggested. "She might not be as nice as she looks."

   Zef was quick to pick up on Manx's double meaning. "Oh, ho! So she looks good to you, does she? Better looking than the Baradans, maybe, but not by much. About like you, I'd say."

   Manx laughed. "And you used to call me 'pretty boy'!" Pausing for a moment, he added, "Of course, if you'd be nice to her, we might get a better idea of her personality than we would if you irritate her." Manx eyed Zef unblinkingly. "You
know
how you are."

   If Zef felt chastised, it didn't show. "I am what I am," he said staunchly. "Can't change, don't want to change, and refuse to try."

   Manx was shrewd enough to know that anyone could change, and also that everyone had their price. "What would it take? More bones?"

   Zef laughed. "No," he replied. "Just toss me a whole fish once in a while—preferably one that's already dead. I'm getting too slow to catch them anymore. Had to resort to eating plants just to stay alive." The eltran shifted his weight painfully from one ragged pectoral fin to the other. "Don't ever get old, Manx," Zef advised. "It's pure hell."

   "Perhaps," Manx conceded. "But I have no intention of dying young just to avoid it."

   "And certainly not before you've met Drusilla," Zef added. "I think you'll like her."

   Manx didn't want to admit it to Zef, but if her scent was anything to go by, he had a strong feeling he already did.

   "What about you?" Manx inquired. "Did you like her?"

   The eltran let out a loud bark. "What difference does
that
make?" he demanded. "I don't give a damn—" Zef broke off there as though considering his reply. "Well, maybe it does matter," he admitted grudgingly. "She seemed nice enough—didn't swear at me, anyway. Most of the people staying in that house have told me to get lost, or fuck off. She didn't do that."