Imperfect Chemistry

Is that a zit?

Hues of blue reform, the hologram imitation is as miffed as I am. Together, we explore the tiny intrusive lump below our left nostril, poking and prodding. Damn. Sure, I can tank a 50 cal, but excess oil and dead skin cells—total system shutdown!

I lean away from the flat surface of the display deck, and holo-me does the same. I tilt my head. She follows. Annoyance gives way to whimsy. It's hard to stay angry when holo-me is so damn charming. Together, we fix our hair with a bit of scrap, tying the chin-length waves into two playful pigtails. We scrutinize each other intensely. Her blue eyes, artificially lit from within, are brighter than my old-world blues. As we exchange subtle glances of judgment, doubt blooms in my gut. I assess and obsess over the soft human features. Red Death and I... we are so very different. Werewolves and humans share ancestry, so it's not uncommon for them to mate. But for a yautja (a predator even to werewolves) to take a prey species as a mate seems unnatural, like a barn owl shacking up with a mouse. Holo-me and I share a grimace at the comparison.

Why do you care? Red Death doesn't. If his ego were that fragile, he wouldn't've killed his own kin or shattered the rigid social constructs of the yautja by taking me as his mate.

"Damn, darling, you're so hot he crossed the species barrier." I laugh it off, and while the hologram doesn't make a sound, she mirrors my amusement. I'm such a dork sometimes.

I step back, and whatever mechanism I triggered upon entering the room shuts off, and holo-me disappears. Oh, well. One is already more than enough. Now, where the heck am I? Several control panels line the walls on either side of me, with the large display deck in the center. Weapons of various shapes and sizes perch in recesses around the forward observation window half the size of the space. Sunlight creeps in, inviting my eyes to examine the sinister angles of six timeworn biomasks. The eye shields warm to a baleful red where the light touches. I can recognize clan divergencies—knowledge gained after being hunted more times than I care to count. But with Red Death, it's different. There are markings from at least three clans and a technological jump in complex ingenuity. Does he have no clan? Or does he have many? My eyes walk the path of light and fall upon the last mask. A chill licks my spine.

I recognize you.

Sightless and carved from bone, the mask personifies every terrifying characteristic inherent to the yautja. The wolf's energy tingles in my nail beds and gums, a prelude to a shift. I try not to dwell on all those encounters with the hunter-kind or Red Death; it'll only make my skin itch to be shed.

I peel my eyes away from the ominous masks and all the death they embody and focus on something safer. Oh, look, twinkling panels. I take in the entire room and its contents. Operations room? Is this where Red Death decides his next prey of choice? Is this where he first started hunting me?

Literal goosebumps.

Well, this adventure got dark—cue departure. I don't examine why it bothers me. That type of baggage you keep hidden beneath your bed...you don't unpack it unless you're ready for the body parts to spill out.

Something smells delicious, and it stops me cold just outside the door. But where is it coming from? Kitchen. Where's the kitchen? Or is a galley on a starship? Ugh, who cares?! I'm coming delicious! I weave my nose through the air to capture the scent and guide me to its origin. Oh, yes, this way, please—posthaste! My stomach gurgles, its demand echoing down the otherwise silent corridor. I obey.

A warm glow scarcely illuminates the way forward, elongating my shadow into monstrous spikes. When you're a predator who sees best at twilight, why bother with fussy lighting?

Air whooshes, and I startle left. Then goggle at the open door.

Damn ship has a mind of its own.

There's a faint whiff of iron, and it draws me inside the new area. A feeble light flickers, casting the space in a ghoulish yellow. As I loiter at the entrance, my brows furrow as I survey the vacant room. I expected far more from the smell than a clean floor and a wall bristling with telescoping spears. But as I enter, the rough feel of the floor's extensive scaring beneath my bare toes is the telling blow. It's a dojo, or whatever the equivalent is to the yautja. And for Red Death's blood to become ingrained in the walls, he spent an inordinate amount of time here.

What's that? I inhale deeper, and my lips bunch up in surprise. Red Death's scent is not the only one I smell. Another yautja? Are they on board? No. I shake my head. I would've smelled them long before now. The degraded scent reveals only another male, no specifics.

Confusion puckers my forehead. The yautja exhibit territorial behavior, just like most predators. And a predator only invades another predator's territory if they're looking to score food, a fight, or to fuck.

Unless they're pack hunters...

Huh, why have I never considered that before? It summons past hunts, dragging the memories from their dark resting places. I can recall each one, their scents, their masks forever engraved in my gray matter. Death Adder, Bristle Back, the Druid... pet names aside, they had all been solo hunters. So maybe I'm wrong about the whole pack thing.

I give the room another cursory sniff, but no new information reveals itself. With a shrug, I exit.

Back in the corridor, a mournful, piteous gurgle echoes off the walls—poor baby. I pat my grumbling tummy with a quick look forward and back, unsure what I was doing—BAM! The scent smacks me square in the nose. My mouth waters—Food! The smell of cured meat with its exotic spices flirts with my nose, and I float in its direction like an old-school cartoon.

(╹ڡ╹ )

La petite mort...

There's a weakening in my knees. The wolf licks her jaws; her presence is warm beneath my skin. Drool tests the levee of my lips as they part to taste the salt and brine-laden air of the larder. Bundles and heavy links of cured meats hang from hooks; some scents are familiar, but most are new. It would seem the yautja, or at least Red Death, hunts local life to replenish food reserves, not just for trophies.

When did I eat last? The hunter, the one Red Death calls a thei'mar ik'kya, tracked me for two days, and fighting for my life had superseded hunger.

Eager to fill my belly, I head into the carnivore's wonderland, yank down a roast-size hunk, and freeze, my mouth agape. Do I need to ask for permission? Would Red Death be angry? I may not be part of a pack hierarchy, but my instinct remains and is hard to ignore.

He's not a wolf. And you're his mate.

Eat.

The war is over. Survival screams louder than fear of a pecking order, real or otherwise. The meat is sweet and more tender than I imagined, but I would've eaten old boots at this point. I gorge myself, swallowing without chewing, making horrifying grunts of abandon. I shouldn't've let myself get so famished. Unease fills my lungs like a blast of cold air.

Bad things happen when you get hungry, Nia...

I get a flashback to the first time I got too hungry—that gnawing, clawing, insatiable hunger when I was newly turned. I hurt people—ate people.

I shiver. A pang of guilt squirrels through my gut. But I ignore it. I have to. I cannot alter the past, but I can ensure that it is not repeated.

Az'auk...

Before I can say a word, I feel the shadow of Red Death's presence behind me. He's so close that his breath stirs the hair at the nape of my neck. The wolf rises to the fore at his sudden nearness, but I refuse to bare my teeth. He's not Red Death anymore, I chastise myself. Red Death was the predator who hunted me. Az'auk is my mate. Biting my cheek, I ignore him, which goes against every instinct in my arsenal, but I'm also curious to see what he'll do.

Silence falls over the room; this dynamic is new, uncharted. The ship—his ship is his territory. Earth had been a neutral zone, sort of.

Shock pebbles my skin as he tugs me backward until I'm fitted tightly against him. He bows over me, and my head settles between the massive walls of his pecks. I snort as a tusk gets caught in my hair. He huffs in irritation, and I can feel his jaw working to free itself. When it does, he dips back in and rubs the underside of his jaw over my head. My stomach flip-flops at the intimacy of the touch. Mine, his scent perfumes my hair. Yours, my body concedes. The tension in my shoulders releases, and I relax into him.

"Eat," he echoes my wolf in Japanese before releasing me and surprising me with his awareness. Am I that transparent? Or can he smell the subtle chemical triggers of the wolf when she's near the surface?

"Thanks for the meal," I murmur. Japanese isn't a language I'm fluent in, but I can manage. Az'auk often minces human vernacular, though I don't know if it's because it's easier to enunciate certain words with a lack of lips or if he forgets what dialect he's using.

His claws skim the cheeks of my bare ass. I don't mind. Nudity is as natural as breathing. I've torn through hundreds of clothes and have probably startled just as many random strangers when I emerge from the woods naked. And the fur pelt I've wrapped myself in offers as much concealment as a napkin square.

Az'auk steps to the side and tugs the flap covering my breasts higher.

"Hey!" I protest. But then his fingers fan my ribs, tracing the fresh scar tissue. His eyes have a hard edge as he examines the pink flesh. I smile and shake my head. The yautja immune system is an impressive feat of evolution, but it falls short of that of a werewolf. What would've taken him about three days to heal takes a mere six hours for me.

There's a gurgle from my stomach, and it trembles with anticipation of more food. Okay, yes, quick healing is paramount to my survival, but having the metabolism of a hummingbird is a severe drawback, especially when food is scarce. That doesn't happen often anymore, not in the age of the In-N-Out Burger. I once envied the pack life, but not enough to become one of them. The northern wolf packs, in particular, owned vast tracts of land and had access to abundant prey like elk and buffalo. Some even kept their herds as part of their farming businesses—a clever way to blend in among humans while ensuring the pack was always well-fed.

Az'auk pauses and gives my flat abdomen the hard side-eye as if he's worried he might be next. I bite my lip at how his mandibles twitch in response to each burble.

Cute.

I almost laugh aloud. What a weird thought. My oxytocin-stupid brain has wrapped the brutal, hard edges of Az'auk in cotton candy fluff.

Sharp clicks from Az'auk's mandibles call my attention back. He charts the little triangles of red where the blades plunged into my skin, following them over my ribs as they fade to a softer pink.

"They're never going to stop." My lips utter the sobering truth without forethought. But it's the truth.

The hunter kind is ruthless—their desire to claim trophies is ceaseless. Killing one had put a target on my back for others. Each new hunter appeared smarter and often bigger than the last. Running was effective for a while. A decade could pass without seeing a single predator, but the hunting got far worse when Red Dea—Az'auk took me as his mate. But the thei'mar ik'kya are a different breed. For the yautja, mating outside their species is taboo, and the thei'mar ik'kya, the butchers of the diseased, take it upon themselves to cleanse the ranks.

My brows follow Az'auk and rise with him. He doesn't offer me false hope. Instead, with a slow sweep of his sharp, silver eyes, he encompasses the room before returning to me and holding my gaze. This could be your home, he says without a word.

Could it? I glance at the thick walls, and the muted whir of the ship agitates doubt.

Az'auk closes his eyes in a slow blink, then moves away, demanding nothing from me. But his meaning is clear: my decision is my own.

I follow him with my eyes, unsure where else to rest them. My brow ticks higher, and a tiny smile frees my lips from between my teeth. I'm not the only one comfortable in my own skin. Under the scrutiny of the low light, Az'auk's skin on his limbs glistens in a vivid arterial red, subsuming into the black channels of his ribs and spine, and when the heavy slabs of muscle move, fishers of magma break through the cool, hardened lava bed. The effect is breathtaking.

I tip my head to the side, fascinated by the loin wrap he's wearing. Were the yautja inspired by ancient Egyptians? Or is it the other way around? The long black fabric wraps around his hips and then spills down to drape his knees.

Surprise sparks through my nerves as I find Az'auk observing me. He watches me watch him, an emotion I can not define swelling in the darkness of his pupils. Maybe he's just hungry...

But as I stare, I know what I see isn't hunger; this is hunger. That undefinable ravenous need for one another that we share.

So, I ask myself again, can this be my new home? Az'auk seems to want that. And Earth is no longer safe.

Leave Earth—that's crazy!

Tendrils of fear slither through my insides. I crush the feeling. Fear has its place. It's inherent to survival. But it's also a double-edged blade. If I stay, then Az'auk will stay, too. In doing so, I give opportunity to others of his kind to kill him, not just me.

Let them try.

For once, my heart and instincts are in harmony, and the answer comes easily.

"Can we swing by my place?" I work a piece of meat from between my front teeth with a nail. How long's that been there? "I've gotta feed Betta White."

The words leave my mouth in one breath, and in the next, he is in front of me, lifting me off my feet, wrapping my legs around his waist, and then he's inside me, showing me in very enthusiastic detail how pleased he is...

A/N: Thanks for reading.

NeverNeverLady: Thanks for reading! I was so happy to see your name pop up. And OMG, Milton was such a pain! No power for a week! But I didn't have it as bad as others, so silver lining and all that. Did you get my PM? If not, I'll answer your question about the other stories. Currently, I haven't considered revisiting my past stories. It doesn't mean I won't, but I'm not ready right now.

Switchblade Huntress: Hey, girl, it's been a while! Thanks for reading!