Alien Prince: (Bride of Qetesh) An Alien SciFi Romance (29 page)

This was not the tepid bathwater air of my apartment; these were not my sheets, this was not my mattress; this impenetrable darkness was utterly unfamiliar.

Where am I?

The dark was all-encompassing, and I opened my eyes as wide as they would go, willing my pupils to dilate and give me some idea of the outline of the room. With fumbling fingers, I reached out to try to gain purchase on some light switch or familiar piece of furniture, but felt nothing in the black. I tossed aside the blanket in which I was tangled and swung my feet over the edge of the bed
—
plush, but small, with a memory foam mattress that swelled at the head for a pillow. Planting my feet on the floor, I was shocked by the feel of cold metal against my bare toes, sending a chill down my spine. I stood, tracing my hands along the far side of the room until they brushed some sort of touch pad which set a series of indirect overhead lights to glowing. They cast the space in a warm, orange light, and I saw that I was in a room
—
no, a cell
—
with no discernible door. The entire thing was maybe ten square feet, with my small bed in one corner and a toilet and sink with a mirror in another. I allowed my gaze to drink in the details of the tiny space, willing myself to keep an impending sense of panic at bay.

How did I get here?
My mind was a thick fog, my memories like dim lights twinkling in the distance, obscured by mist.

I braced myself against the sink and turned on the faucet so I could splash cool water over the flushed skin of my checks. I peered into the mirror and took in three deep breaths, trying to get my heart to calm down, desperate to find some modicum of comfort in the familiar lines of my face. But as my mind spun, trying to find the logic of my location, I became somewhat unhinged until I deflated entirely into tears.

Don
’
t cry, Novalyn. Don
’
t cry, don
’
t cry.

Apparently there was a door, and it opened with a
whoosh
as I was attempting to give myself something of a pep talk. I spun around, bracing myself against the sink, and saw a tall, slender man standing in the doorway. He was familiar
—
how did I know him?

“
Good morning, Novalyn,
”
he said, a sweet, lilting accent to his voice, one that I couldn
’
t quite place.
“
How are you feeling?
”

“
Where am I?
”

“
A bit groggy, then,
”
he stated, peering down at a tablet in his hand and quickly making a note. I narrowed my eyes at him: he looked familiar, yes, but I couldn
’
t quite place the lithe frame, the strong, aquiline nose, or the eyes that were such a startling shade of blue that they seemed almost luminescent.

“
Am I sick?
”
I asked, running my hands over the light, soft linen outfit in which I was clad. It walked the line between hospital scrubs and pajamas: white, with delicate embroidery on the cuffs of the sleeves and the hems of the drawstring pants.

“
I certainly hope not,
”
he said,
“
though I am concerned that your memory isn
’
t starting to come back.
”
He approached me cautiously, the way one might a wild animal, and held his finger up in front of my eyes. He shifted it back and forth, and my eyes followed it automatically. Satisfied, he made another note on his tablet.

“
May I?
”
he asked, and pressed the back of his hand to my forehead. He smiled, a sharp, startling thing that was alluring, but cold, somehow.
“
An antiquated method,
”
he remarked,
“
but effective, nonetheless, when precision isn
’
t necessary. You aren
’
t running a fever.
”

“
Why would I be running a fever?
”

“
In case you
’
d had some sort of adverse reaction to the sedatives.
”

“
Sedatives?
”

He watched my face contort with that same mixture of fear and confusion and he placed his hand genially on my shoulder, an awkward gesture that seemed practiced, forced.
“
I promise you, everything will start to come back to you momentarily. Most humans recoup a hundred percent of their memories within fifteen minutes of waking.
”

I nodded dumbly, trying to make sense of his words.
“
So, I
…
I
’
m not a prisoner, then?
”

He smiled again; it was disarming.
“
No, of course not.
”

“
And I can leave whenever I like
…
?
”

He canted his head gently to the side and I noticed for the first time that he didn
’
t have ears. How was it that he didn
’
t have ears? Where were they, why were they missing? I was staring. Was it rude to stare?

“
It
’
s not quite as simple as all that, Nova,
”
he equivocated.
“
Presently, there isn
’
t anywhere for you to
go
.
”

“
I don
’
t understand
— ”

“
Would you like some water, perhaps? Something to eat?
”

I shook my head.
“
I want to know why I
’
m being kept here
— ”

“
You aren
’
t being
kept
anywhere.
”

“
I want to be taken to the person in charge.
”

“
I
’
m afraid I can
’
t do that.
”

“
Well, what
can
you do?
”
I demanded. He smiled again, doing his best to keep me calm.

“
I can feed you, and give you something to drink, and sit with you while we wait for your memory to come back.
”
He clutched his tablet to his chest, and I watched him carefully. He was perfectly still, not a single fidgeting movement, not a hair out of place. He was pale with hair the color of fresh-hewn corn that hung neatly to his shoulders; he was quite handsome, if you could get past the whole no-ears thing.

“
Can you please,
”
I said, fists clenched,
“
please
just tell me where I am?
”

He paused before giving a sharp nod of his head and gesturing to the doorway. I hesitated, but ultimately brushed past him to find myself in a rather long, but otherwise nondescript hallway with more of that same indirect lighting that my chamber had. He followed me out and led me down the corridor at a leisurely amble. There were other doors like mine, but none of them were open; they permitted no noise to escape. The hall was perfectly quiet.

At the end of it was another door. I pushed against it, but it didn
’
t give until my host held up his wrist to a console nearby. Then, it whisked open and we stepped out onto a bustling promenade with a glass ceiling that boasted the most extraordinary view of the night sky I had ever seen.

“
Welcome, Ms. Bryce,
”
he said,
“
To the
Atria
, Federation Ship 4199.
”

Not the night sky, then: space. Stars. Closer than I
’
d ever before been to them. I tilted my head back and marveled.

“
Okay, I get it,
”
I said, my jaw slack with wonder.
“
I
’
m dreaming.
”

“
I assure you, no.
”

“
Yep. Definitely dreaming.
”

“
Ms. Bryce
— ”

“
Do you have a name?
”
I asked, angling my eyes on The Earless Wonder. He grinned, showing a set of three sharp canines.

“
Tymer Mafaren, Central Echelon,
”
he said,
“
We
’
ve met.
”
I narrowed my eyes at him; I tried to be shrewd, cunning, tried to mask the sinking sensation that something horrible had happened, or was about to happen. I tried to keep my stomach from turning over, tried to keep the previous evening
’
s dinner from ending up all over Tymer Mafaren
’
s highly polished shoes.

“
We know each other?
”
I said, more of a statement than a question despite how my voice pitched ever so slightly upward at the end.

“
We do.
”
He reached out then, using a fingertip to brush an errant brown curl out of my eyes, and that one simple, intimate gesture brought a memory crashing back with such force that it almost knocked the air out of me.

Tymer and Me. At dinner in Little Italy. Clumsy, twirling long spaghetti noodles, laughing so hard my hair falls out of its clip. Tymer, reaching across the table to tuck it behind my ear. Tymer, talking to me about love, about psychology. Tymer, standing on the hardwood of my studio apartment and telling me I am beautiful.

“
Novalyn?
”
he said gently, drawing me out of my reverie.
“
Come with me.
”
He took my hand then, and I clutched it, my eyes squeezed shut against the force of the memories as they flooded back into focus. I let Tymer lead me, trying to stem the rising panic that threatened to make my heart beat clear out of my chest. I did know him; we
’
d dated. Only a few dates, right? How had it gone
…
?

I
’
d met him online, wasn
’
t that it? He had messaged me first, and I had been drawn to his eyes. We had exchanged a few messages, and on our first date, we had had dinner. Wasn
’
t that it?

Now, Tymer was leading me through an all but abandoned mess hall, where he sat me down at a table and fetched me a cup of water and a plate of food: hearty fare, oatmeal with fresh berries.
“
Here,
”
he said gently,
“
I
’
m sorry you
’
re
…
I
…”
He paused, eyeing me.
“
I
’
m kind of new, actually, at my job.
”

“
What exactly
is
your job?
”
I asked, drinking deeply of the water.

“
I
’
m a member of the Echelon,
”
he said, and I blinked, trying to determine if he thought that was supposed to make sense.
“
We are an intergalactic agency comprised of members of most known species that serves as a neutral intermediary in conflicts and generally keeps an eye on
…
things.
”

“
Things?
”

“
And stuff.
”
He smiled, and I couldn
’
t help but smile back.
“
Anyway, I am an extractor of the central Echelon, and you, Ms. Bryce, are my charge.
”

“
Charge?
”
I echoed, setting to work on the oatmeal, and finding it surprisingly savory for space food. Space food. I had to push the thought of being
in space
utterly out of my mind in order to get any of the food down.

“
Yes,
”
Tymer went on,
“
I, ah
…
I was tasked with identifying and extracting
…
that is, there is a
…”
He stammered, and I just sort of furrowed my brow, watching him as I chewed. There was something kind of comforting about the mundane act of eating.