Bebe (16 page)

“Down, Pani.” Faintly exasperated, his uncle tried to disentangle himself.

“Who is that?” she insisted, immediately struggling to climb back up again.

“I said down.” But when that failed to gain instant compliance, openly exasperated, Bach rounded on her with a sharp, “Do you want a spanking?”

The struggles instantly ceased.

“No,” came Pani’s voice, sounding more sullen than subdued.

“Too bad.” Bach pointed off-screen. “Go get your hairbrush and wait for me upstairs.”

She must have gone, but judging by the look of warning that crossed his uncle’s face, she likely went neither obediently nor immediately. And yet, that look of warning was fleetingly tempered with a kind of fondness that Tral had never seen his normally reserved uncle direct at any other being in his life. Himself most certainly included, and by all family rumors, Tral was supposed to be his favorite.

Leaning back in his console chair, Bach once more faced the monitor. “If the intent of this call is to garner advice, then I will say again: put the female outside. Dress her first if you must, but I suspect if the males are this intent on having her, they will probably take very good care of her. A dead female is hardly a breed-able one, after all.”

Tral blanched. “You can’t be serious!”

Bach blinked. Ever so slightly, his head tilted the other way and he studied Tral for a long moment in absolute silence. “My boy, have you allowed yourself to become attached?”

Tral opened his mouth, then closed it again. He shifted uneasily. “No. I only found her a week ago. I’m certainly not—” he shifted again, groping for the right response to a question he’d never even considered. “—having...relations with a...a human. She’s an animal, for—” He stopped abruptly, and stared at his expressionless uncle. “My pardon, I meant no offense.”

“None taken,” Bach said smoothly—much too smoothly—and offered him the faintest of smiles. That he was smiling at all was not a good thing. In the silence that followed, Tral thought he heard the slight tak-tak-takking of claws being drummed on the Bach’s desktop.

Tral had the grace to flush. “Pani is a very...winsome animal.”

“You’re only digging yourself deeper,” his uncle told him, but there went that faint smile again. This time it almost seemed to reach his eyes, sparkling there for the barest instant before Bach refocused on the business at hand. “And now you are under siege.”

Grateful to have been steered back onto an infinitely less treacherous path, Tral nodded. “I fully expect the window to break at any minute.”

The window in question dealt out not one shock this time but a rapid-fire series of them, which momentarily silenced the pounding by knocking everyone back. Even from where he was sitting, Tral could feel the tiny hairs on his arm prickling with the static of the charge.

One of the males outside groaned.

Tral almost felt sorry for him, but at the moment he was more concerned for himself.

Finally, his uncle drew a decisive breath. “What is the likelihood that you might still be alive come morning?”

Slow footsteps were scraping their way back across the porch, resolutely heading towards the window. Only one set though, and when the banging resumed, though the strength behind each pounding blow was audibly flagging, Tral knew it had to be the aggressive pack leader. The human was determined; he’d give him that.

“Slim,” Tral hedged. “I could really use some help. Tonight would be ideal.”

“You’ve my blood in you,” Bach said, his chin lifting with some vague measure of smugness. “You’ll live.”

Tral wished he could feel that confident. “What if I don’t?”

His uncle rarely bothered entertaining ‘what if’s.’ “I will see you at first light.”

As Bach shifted forward in his seat, reaching out of the monitor’s viewing range to end the call, Tral called a hasty farewell. “Bury me in Pauper’s Field.”

Bach paused to grace him with the barest of smiles. It was the closest thing to a fond look that Tral had ever received from the man. “I hadn’t planned to spend that much.”

His uncle disconnected the call, and Tral sat back in his chair, studying the dark monitor. Outside the wind howled. Inside, the window alternately crackled in mending, splintered under the continuous, rigorous assault of that pounding rock, and then dealt another staggering electric zap to its stubborn assailant.

Feeling very much alone, Tral settled in and hoped he made it to morning.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Bad Bebe

The logs were semi-green, and so the fire was sputtering, spitting, and making the occasional popping sound when Bebe roused. She lifted her head off the pillow of her arm and sleepily clawed her way out from under her warm weight of blankets into the darkness of the station house. Lit only by waning firelight, shadows danced throughout the room. Blinking and rubbing her eyes, it took several long seconds before she remembered why nothing looked familiar. This was not Sir’s or Ma’am’s house, and this was not her cushion by the mantelpiece. The bed was much more comfortable than her cushion. She could spread out, if she wanted to, but then there was her bed-mate to consider.

Pushing herself up on her arms, Bebe looked past her shoulder at Tral, sprawling on his back across the majority of the mattress, snoring loudly. He still had all his clothes on, even his shoes. His toy with the tufts of red feathers poking out at the end was lying across his chest, and he slept with one hand gripping it possessively, as if he were afraid she might want to play with it sometime in the night.

She didn’t; she hadn’t played with toys in years. And anyway, she was much more interested in showing that she could be trusted not to get into any more trouble the second he stopped watching her. Despite yesterday’s misbehavior, he seemed inclined to want to believe the best of her. He hadn’t even put her in a sleepsack, and that right there was a fragile bond of trust that she was utterly determined to prove herself worthy of.

She never should have run away. It was a hard thing to admit, even just to herself, but she knew now that she was never going home. Change had come, as she had feared it would, and this was one of the consequences. Somehow, this had become her new home. Somehow, she was going to have to get used to it. And to Tral, who seemed very nice when he wasn’t rubbing that awful lotion on her back and bottom. And when he wasn’t spanking her, although there was no denying that she had deserved that. She had stolen his coat and made trouble for him; she had to do better from here on out or her next change might see her cast out into the snow with the men who pounded angrily on the windows.

Thank goodness that had stopped.

Tral snored deeply and her drifting gaze returned to him. His features were lost mostly to shadow, but the room held just enough light for her to see him clearly if she drew close enough. He was very handsome, and very nice. That he willingly allowed her to sleep on his bed felt like a monumental privilege, especially since it wasn’t (once his huge size was considered) a very big bed. Sprawled as he was, he occupied more than half the mattress space. Huddling up close to the headboard in order to give him as much space as possible was beginning to make her legs cramp. Moving slowly so as not to jostle the bed, she extended them out over the edge of the mattress and stretched the stiffness out.

The snores ceased. Rising cautiously onto hands and knees, she edged close enough to peer over the pillow and into his sleeping face. Mouth slightly agape, he looked completely relaxed. With a slight hitch in his breath, Tral resumed his loudly-rattling indrawn breaths a moment later.

Still asleep, then. Bebe eased away from him again.

She lay back down, hoping to keep it that way. Nobody—nice or not—liked being awakened from a deep sleep. Especially not at night, and from here the windows all looked very dark. Pillowing her head on her folded arm, she kept watch over his dreams. Just like he had done for her over the last few days. She had more than one vague and sometimes dream-like memory of being lost in that misery of heat and sweat and shivering sickness, of sleeping in fits and starts only to find him leaning over her whenever she opened her eyes. She remembered him bathing her with a cold cloth, helping her to sit while he coaxed her to drink sips of tea or broth, rolling her onto her stomach while he took her temperature again and again and again.

Yes, Tral was very different from Sir and Ma’am. He had a very hard hand when she provoked him too—Bebe reached back, touching her still tender bottom—but he could also be gentle. She traced his features, the short wave of straight black hair sweeping back from his forehead, the slope of his nose, the broad curve of his chin. He wasn’t Sir or Ma’am, but judging by what she had seen of him thus far, she knew he was someone she could come to like very much. Maybe even love.

If only he weren’t so strange and...well, disorganized.

Bebe cast a disheartened stare around the cluttered room before sliding back into her cocoon of blankets. Shifting close enough to steal a tiny, unused corner of his pillow, she checked Tral’s snoring profile one last time and then tried to go back to sleep.

She needed to use the bathroom.

Pulling the blankets back over her head, Bebe tried to ignore the nagging sensation. She’d almost rather wet the bed than for Tral to wake and find her wandering around the room. He might think she was trying to run away again. He’d be sure to put her in a sleepsack after that. He might even spank her again. Every house had rules, and he seemed to prefer her to stay in his bed.

If she was very quiet and if she hurried, she could go to the bathroom and be back again before Tral ever knew she’d left his side.

Except that he would know, because they always did. She always got caught. If he wanted to her stay in bed, then in bed she was determined to stay. If she tried, she could probably hold it until morning.

Of course, he might also want her to spend the night comfortably, instead of with her legs crossed, jostling the bed as she struggled not to wet herself.

That was being melodramatic. The need wasn’t that bad yet.

Outside, somewhere around the corner of the house she could hear the slow and steady drip...drip...drip of melting water.

With a puff of soft breath, Bebe gave up on sleeping. Pushing back the blankets, she slipped off the side of the bed to stand beside it. She winced, feeling stiff and sore all over, particularly in her feet as she moved cautiously to circle the foot of the bed. Each limping step was enough to make her cringe, but the only sound she allowed herself was the occasional hiss of breath as the particularly tender ball of her left foot occasionally brushed the floor.

Occupied as she was in not making a sound, she was halfway across the room before she became aware of movement in the snow just outside. Bebe froze, listening to the whisper-soft crunches that were circling the porch. It seemed to be following her progress, matching her speed and pausing when she did to listen. The tiny hairs on the nape of her neck prickled. Shying from the sound, she gave the front door a wide berth and hurried on to the bathroom.

She used the toilet as quietly as possible, then washed up in the sink. Afterwards, she stood looking at her pink-painted fingernails, each one trimmed in at the sides until they resembled Ma’am’s pretty claws. Hers were all dirty and two were torn. She tried to clean them under the faucet, but after a while it all seemed so pointless. Bending, she bit away the claw-like tips and watched as the water washed the pieces down the drain.

Sitting down in front of the bathroom sink, the floor cold under her, the water running aimlessly into the bowl of the sink above, she struggled not to cry. She was tired of crying. It only made her eyes burn and her head hurt, and it certainly wasn’t going to change anything. She lived here now. She had to stop thinking about the past and start getting used to Tral.

After a while, she got up and shut the water off.

Limping back out into the main room, she stood looking at the fire and the shadowy surrounding of mess that cluttered every available surface. Though it was still the middle of the night, she wasn’t at all tired anymore. Briefly, she considered cleaning up a little, like she used to do for First Ma’am, but which Ma’am never liked for her to do. Obviously, Tral didn’t have a Ma’am to pick up for him. He didn’t even have a sweeper, and frankly he could have used both. Maybe Tral wouldn’t mind if she took care of him just a little. Maybe she’d try to wash the dishes tomorrow and if she did it while he was watching her, then if he protested she’d know what the rules of the house were regarding that.

The creeping, stalking crunching sound continued to move outside. Restless footsteps following her from the bathroom, around the corner of the house to pause again near the window that overlooked the stack of dirty dishes in the sink. Very quietly, whatever it was tested the latched sill.

Bebe hesitated, not at all sure she wanted to peek outside and see first hand what was trying to get in. At best, she might get the scare of her life; at worst, that awful pounding could start up again, no doubt startling Tral wide awake. He’d definitely know she was up then.

She always got caught.

Still, Bebe hesitated. After a moment, her curiosity got the best of her and she tiptoed across the floor to take hold of the curtain’s hem. Her breath caught in her too-tight throat as she leaned over the sink and cautiously peeled the fabric back far enough to peek out and straight into the unblinking eyes of the scruffy human male peeking back in.

Bebe froze, locked in the grip of those dark eyes. Bad human, Tral had said. Of course, at the time the human had been trying to beat his way into the house. Obviously, he’d been angry then, but he didn’t look angry right now. If anything, he almost seemed relieved to see her. He pressed his open hand against the window, steaming the glass right her face-level.

Bebe hesitated, glancing back over her shoulder at Tral, who lay obliviously slumbering on and snoring fit to rattle the rafter beams. Blinking twice, she glanced reluctantly back at the outside male. It was night and it was snowing, and he stood right in the thick of it, straight and strong, dark and furry. Very furry. Even his clothes were furry, and the thick curling hairs on his face and the top of his head were so shaggy, obviously no one had taken him to be groomed in quite some time.