Challa (8 page)

He was upwind from her. She was less than a dozen feet away when his scent greeted her like a wall of pure happiness. Walking through it was the most beautiful thing she had ever encountered. The second most beautiful thing was the light shining from his golden brown eyes.

“Ch-Challa?”

She loved his deep voice. It suited him. Compton was not tall, but he had a strong build. His chest and arms spoke of hours in training, making Challa wonder what kind of training he’d faced. There was an air of power about him. Of facing obstacles with his mind and two hands, and defeating whatever threatened him. He would have been a worthy and intimidating Ruinos.

In the sunlight she could see tints of red in his brown hair. Everything about him pleased her and surprised her. But he didn’t touch her. Not yet, but he would. She could sense him wanting to, but he was hesitant. Cautious, but not fearful. Like a Ruinos male, he would never force himself upon her.

Someone passed by them and honked a horn. Compton acknowledged the driver with a shout and a wave.
He’s well known here. He has friends…family…and a history here.
The knowledge suddenly saddened her. She had no true friends or family left, and certainly no home, unless she wanted to call the carnival her home. She and Amfinn had accidentally parted company years ago. Since then, she had wandered alone, taking odd little jobs to survive, and always praying that some day she would meet up again with one of the other escapees. If nothing more than to have that contact with one of her own kind again. Someone she could be her true self with, and not worry about the consequences.

They walked side-by-side to a grill. His scent was tangy, filling her head with its sweet tartness. She realized now the lemonade smell she’d detected earlier was the scent of him caring about her. His real odor was more orangey. Tangerine.

Once they reached the restaurant and went inside, Compton was again greeted by people he knew. He led her to a little booth in the back, and they sat, facing each other across the table.

Almost immediately his orangey scent was swallowed up by the dull, penetrating smell of frying food. The first twinges of a headache echoed between her eyes. Thankfully a waitress followed them to the table to get their drink order. There seemed to be a communication problem when Compton ordered. Neither did he look happy once the woman left. Something about a wagon…

To redirect his attention, Challa smiled around her growing headache. “You’ve lived here all your life?”

Her plan worked. The frown between his eyebrows disappeared and he smiled back at her. “Yeah. Except for my tours of duty overseas, this has been my only home.”

Before she could answer, he ducked behind his menu.

It took a moment for her to realize she was sitting there, staring at him with her mouth slightly agape. She had read him. She had read him!

Holiest of stars! He hadn’t touched her, but she had read him!

* * * *

“Kreesi, how is it different having a life mate?”

No matter what the topic, no matter what the oldling had to tell them, Vodoro always brought the subject around to life mates at some point during their lessons. Fortunately Kreesi never berated her for her inquisitiveness, and always gave her a straight answer.

“It’s very different. It is nothing like your life is now, changeling.”

Now Challa’s curiosity burned. “How is it different?”

Kreesi crossed her withered legs in front of her and prepared herself for a longer lesson than usual. “For one thing, you will read each other.”

The comment brought about a round of giggles. “That’s silly.” Breftu laughed.

“No, it’s not silly,” Kreesi rebuked the child without hurting her feelings. “You will know how your life mate feels, and maybe you will be able to tell what he is thinking.”

Instead of laughter, there was the sound of everyone, “Oohing,” in awe.

* * * *

For some reason, when Compton mentioned “tours of duty”, Challa saw scenes of carnage float through her mind. Bloody scenes of people getting shot. Of weapons shredding things, people, and animals.

A black, depressing sadness enveloped all of it. Thick, oppressive sadness, as well as depression and loneliness. It clogged her throat and chest to the point where she had to bow her head and pray for it to go away.

Compton was not a happy man. The smiles and laughter he had shared with her so far had been a disguise, the same way she used her human self to disguise her true self. Challa fought back the tears.

“I take it you’re not from around here.”

She glanced up. Small talk. He was trying to have a conversation with her. Find some common ground where they could become comfortable with each other because comfortable led to being open and honest. Honesty led to confessions, and her biggest confession still lay in the distance. Shaking her head, she said, “I’ve only been here for a little more than seven years.”

Touch me, Compton.

She sent it as a wish. A prayer. A fervent but silent request.

Touch me, Compton.
Can you read me?

Even if all he relayed to her was sadness and depression, she wanted that connection with him. One step at a time, one revelation at a time. It was all she wanted. And everything she needed.

Touch me, Compton. Please.

His hand reached over and clasped one of hers. Challa felt her body react to his touch and his warmth. Sweet, pungent oranges burst in the air around her like bubbles. She sniffed, afraid to move for fear of losing any one of the thousand sensations rushing through her.

“You know, you’ve never told me your full name.”

“Challa Heela Doon.” It was a small confession, but it was a start. She was grateful she could say anything sensible at this moment.

“Challa Heela Doon. Challa Doon. How unusual.”

She loved the way he said her name, the way he tried to copy her accent. After all this time on Earth, she hadn’t been able to get rid of it although she’d tried.

“Challa, how long have you been working at the carnival?”

“Almost two years.”

“Wow. And all that time as an alien girl?”

As an alien girl.
Challa felt her emotions rollercoastering. Like everyone else, with the exception of Lawson, he believed her true self was a costume. To the rest of the world, that was what she wanted them to believe. But not her life mate. He had to know the truth. She had to tell him that the green skin and talons and wings were not a costume. But would he accept her once he found out? In every circumstance, Challa had believed her true life mate would be Ruinos. Compton Scott was not Ruinos. He knew nothing about being Ruinos.

Would he accept me?

“How did you land a job at the carnival, if you don’t mind me asking?”

More questions. Should she tell him everything now, or wait?

There’s no time to wait,
Challa
.
In two days’ time, the carnival will be gone, and you with it. And Compton will remain here.

But what will happen if I tell him? What happens then? Will he remain here? Or will he come with me, with the carnival?

What if he doesn’t want to come with the carnival?

Oh, dearest heavens, what will Lawson say? What would he do if I try to leave the carnival again?

Challa fought the memories of past attempts she’d made to escape Lawson’s hold. In too many ways, being in the sideshow was just like being enslaved by the Arra. Yes, she no longer feared being eaten, or tortured, or repeatedly raped like some Ruinos she’d seen. But her freedom was no longer hers. Her future was measured in miles, from one town to another, and in days, from one show to the next.

Unable to answer, she kept her face averted from him. Suddenly Compton released her hand, and her lunch was slid in front her. Challa grabbed her sandwich with relief and began cramming it into her mouth.

Chapter 9

Promise

He watched Challa dig into her grilled cheese sandwich as if she hadn’t eaten in a week. Compton took it as a positive sign. Like an idiot, he had been asking her about her past, and he had hit a brick wall for his efforts.

Stupid, Compton. Real stupid. You don’t even know the woman that well and there you go asking her personal questions when you should know better.

Thank goodness their food arrived when it did. Trying to find some sort of neutral ground, Compton heaped a few of his fried onion rings onto his hamburger and took a huge bite. When he looked up, Challa was staring at him in surprise.

“What?”

“I’ve never seen a person do that before.”

“Do what? Eat their burgers with onion rings? It’s good. You ought to try it,” he suggested. Food was safe ground. It wasn’t like trying to discuss politics, or religion, or each other’s past history.

“Not today. Maybe later.” She picked up a french fry and stuffed it into her mouth. An expression of contentment came over her face. “Mmm. These are the way I love them. Crunchy on the outside and soft on the inside.”

“A french fry fanatic, eh?” Compton teased.

“They’re my most favorite food on this world,” she admitted before taking another bite of her sandwich.

Compton stared at her. “
In
the world,” he automatically corrected her, and grinned.

Challa blinked. “What?”

“You mean they’re your most favorite food
in
the world, not on it.”

It took her a moment to comprehend what he was saying. “Oh!” Challa gave a quick nod. “That’s right. In the world.” She bowed her head as her face reddened. Compton laughed sympathetically.

“Boy, you really get into your character, don’t you?”

For a second time the look she gave him was of unconcealed confusion. It was then another explanation broadsided him, and when it did, it became Compton’s time to be embarrassed.
Fuck! You did it again!

“I’m sorry. I was being glib, when I shouldn’t have… Damn. I’m sorry.”

“About what?”

“For saying what I did. I forgot you haven’t been on U.S. soil for very long, so your grasp of our colloquialisms may be sketchy. I’m sorry, Challa. It was thoughtless of me.”

Frowning slightly, Challa dropped her sandwich on her plate and leaned back in the booth. “I’m having a very hard time trying to connect with you, Compton. I want to get to know you better. I really do, but…” She paused, upper teeth pressed into her lower lip.

He couldn’t stop staring at her mouth. He wondered how it would feel to kiss her. To hold her in his arms. To have her arms around him. Somehow he found the breath to respond. “But what, Challa?”

“I don’t know,” she honestly admitted. “What kind of man are you, Compton Scott? Why do you…” She paused again, turned away, and for a stretch of time Compton wondered what she was thinking.

Before he was aware of her actions, Challa was out of her seat and heading for the door. It took him several precious seconds to get his butt in gear and go after her, yelling back at Patty and the rest that he’d be back later to pay the tab.

She was halfway down the sidewalk and almost to the square when Compton spotted her. Not hesitating, he broke into a run to catch up with her, amazed at how quick she was.

Challa had reached the green when he finally caught up with her. Grabbing her arm, he stopped her. “Hey! Wait up! What’s wrong? What did I say?”

She stared up at him, her face wet with tears. “That’s just it, Compton. You didn’t do anything wrong. It’s me. I’m…I…This isn’t…this isn’t the way I thought it would be. It’s not…” She tried to jerk her arm out of his grasp and keep walking, but his grip on her arm was solid.

She was frightened, confused, and not thinking straight, and Compton had no idea why. He scoured his brain for something he might have said or done to make her bolt the way she did, but nothing was making itself clear. Still, he knew it had to be because of him. Damn him for not having the foggiest idea what to do or say to make the situation any better!

“Challa, talk to me, damn it! Tell me what I did wrong! Don’t go! Don’t leave me, please!”

She ceased struggling and looked up at him with those deep blue eyes with the purplish flecks swirling around in their depths. They were pleading with him. Begging him to say something. To do something. Compton cursed himself for not knowing what she needed.

Suddenly, it was there. What he’d been missing. Her honeysuckle scent floated around him, sweeter than cotton candy. Faint, but unmistakable. Without being aware of what he was doing, Compton leaned toward her and sniffed.

Challa stopped struggling. He dropped his face closer to her red waterfall of hair where the fragrance was stronger. He felt her hand press against his chest, and he would swear he felt the heat from it soak through the skin.

“I love the way you smell, Challa.” It was a tiny confession, when the truth was he wanted to also tell her how soft her hair was against his cheek. Softer than a kitten’s fur. Warm. Begging to be caressed.