I Was An Alien Cat Toy (8 page)

walked out, ignoring Temin’s protests.

“Great,” Temin muttered. He’d drink the soiled water if he had to, but he’d already had two fairly

nasty stomach bugs as a result of poor hygiene, so he wasn’t anxious for another. He poked at the food, and

his appetite died as he contemplated the stodgy mess. No clean water to wash it down with, so best not to eat

until he got some. He could go days without food if he had to, and DopeyBoy would probably bring water

the next day. He’d kick up a fuss if he had to—
someone
would have to care if he made a nuisance of himself.

The exciting thing would be finding out what they would do if he did.

~~~~~~~~

He was hungry and thirsty and more than a little cranky by the time DopeyBoy came back the next

day, but when he spotted the dark shape behind him in the doorway, his heart leapt, his crankiness forgotten...until he realised it wasn’t Xexe, but Xexe’s shefting creepy boyfriend. The irritation was replaced

by fear and wariness—this one was dangerous, and Temin deeply distrusted his presence here when Xexe

was gone.

But the boyfriend seemed only interested in making sure DopeyBoy did a better job than on the

previous three days, watching as DopeyBoy changed the water in both dishes and cut the food up into smaller

pieces, though it was still the same crap Temin had been getting. DopeyBoy also dealt with the litter tray,

which was good because it was starting to stink. Why the boyfriend had such a sudden interest in Temin’s

welfare, he had no idea—he just wanted him to get out.

DopeyBoy put the candle lamp on the table, then hung around the doorway, as if wanting to leave.

The boyfriend crouched down by Temin, and seemed to be waiting for him to eat. Temin wasn’t going to do

anything for this bastard, so he just sat and stared back, pretending like the thing wasn’t bothering him.

The boyfriend extended a paw and suddenly the claws came out—Temin couldn’t stop himself

jumping, and a low growl came from the boyfriend’s throat. He poked a claw through a bit of meat and held

it under Temin’s nose. Temin shook his head. He wasn’t going to let him hand feed him—it was bad enough

when Xexe did that and he
liked
Xexe.

The boyfriend held the meat for a few more seconds, then flicked it off back into the dish as if he’d

got bored. With a screech of pottery against stone, he shoved the bowl away as he leaned in closer to Temin.

Temin scooted back as far as he could on the bed but there wasn’t much play in the leash. He tugged at the

collar in frustration, hoping maybe it had come loose and by a miracle he’d be freed—but it was secure,

leaving him in easy reach of this male. What was the bugger up to?

The boyfriend yowled something and DopeyBoy came over—rather uncertainly, or so it looked to

Temin—before crouching down. Then the boyfriend reached over and grabbed Temin’s leash, dragging him

forward, half-choking him in the process.

“Watch it, you shefting shit!” His protests were ignored as he was pulled off the bed and onto the

cold, hard floor, his arse hitting the stone with a painful thump. He found himself shoved between the

younger male’s legs, then his arms were pulled behind him and held fast by strong paws. The boyfriend took

a moment to look him over, and then, movements unhurried, deliberate, he put his paws on Temin’s knees

and forced his legs apart. The boyfriend growled and then bent to lick at Temin’s dick, his rough tongue hot

and insistent against cringing flesh, tasting and exploring where he was not welcome. Temin began to

struggle, kicking with all his strength against the male’s body and legs, and bellowing, hoping someone

would come and see what the fuss was about.

But it was hopeless—he could never defeat these creatures even if he was fully fit and big as Jeng.

The boyfriend didn’t even seem to be irritated by his fighting back—he just sat back and watched Temin

wear himself out, paws on Temin’s ankles, holding them down. The other male growled, and the boyfriend

reached out and grabbing Temin’s braid, yanking it agonisingly, pulling his head forward while the rest of

him was held back, like he was trying to tear his head off. Temin screamed again, but the boyfriend dragged

Temin’s braid painfully tight around his head and across his mouth, turning it into a gag. Temin struggled

and tried to yell but it was effective as it was cruel—he could swear the bastard snickered as he watched

Temin trying to breathe, drooling around the choking obstacle.

I’ll kill you
, Temin swore, glaring at the male watching him with half-closed yellow eyes.
Just let me

get my pistol and you’ll be one dead kitty cat, you fucker.

The boyfriend yawned, exposing frightening perfectly white canines. A warning—as if Temin needed

one. Then the boyfriend leaned forward, placing his claws on Temin’s belly, the needle-like tips digging in

painfully but not breaking the skin. Yet. Temin shivered, his stomach muscles contracting under the

creature’s grip. He was sure Xexe wouldn’t want him hurt, but he wasn’t at all sure this animal gave a damn.

I could be killed. For real, right now.
And he was utterly helpless to do the slightest thing to even

slow them down. He could only stare, breath straining through his nose, teeth jammed around the distasteful

mass of hair in his mouth as the boyfriend pinned him down. The flickering candlelight made him look even

more alien, primitive, but this
wasn’t
just some dumb animal. It was a creature as smart—maybe smarter—

than Temin, and much, much stronger. Whatever it wanted, wouldn’t be something as simple as dead prey.

The paw moved down over his groin, and began to knead, claws half-retracted, ready to spring out

again in a microsecond. Temin started to struggle frantically as he suddenly realised what was going on, and

sheft it, he wasn’t going to let this thing molest him again. He screamed through the gag, but the braid was

just pulled tighter, forcing his head back against the younger male’s chest. The boyfriend chirruped—he was

pleased
at his reaction.
Sick fuck!
Temin yelled in his head.

The candle flickered again, suddenly went out. But cats could see in the dark.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Free at last, Gredar fairly ran up the stairs. Now he’d done his duty to the clan for a cycle, he could

look forward to a nice long uninterrupted time in the settlement—and time with Kirin, whom he’d missed.

Funny how a dumb creature could be such good company, and Gredar had got used to his strange, naked

features, his odd vocalisations. He was probably getting soft in his old age, he told himself as he went to open

his door. But as he put his hand on the latch, he stopped, sniffing at the cloying stench of rot, decay, drifting

out from
inside
his room.

He opened the door, and the smell became overpowering. He nearly gagged, his hand over his nose

barely mitigating the reek. Kirin lay motionless on the bed and didn’t react at all to his arrival. Gredar threw

his pack down and dashed over to the bed, seized with fear that his pet had died and been left to putrefy.

With relief, he quickly realised that most of the smell was coming from rotting food in the bowl on the

ground and from a dirty litter tray, and that Kirin, huddled under his furs, was breathing. But that relief

disappeared in moments as he knelt and sniffed—some of the sickly smell was definitely coming from his

pet, and that Kirin might be breathing but he was far from well. What the paznitl had happened to him? His

face was bruised and swollen, and his skin was....

Gredar jerked back his hand—Kirin was on fire with fever, his breathing ragged and laboured, rattling

in his chest. Gredar ripped the furs back, making Kirin whimper, but he had to get him cool. Water,

water...the water bowls were empty. Bone dry in fact, and when he dashed into the washroom to check, there

was nothing in the ewer either.

“I’m going to get help, little one, don’t move.” Kirin clawed weakly at his throat—to his horror,

Gredar now saw the collar was cutting into his swollen neck, and some of the raspiness in Kirin’s breathing

had to be because he was close to choking. “I’m so sorry, pretty one,” Gredar said, desperately fumbling at

the catch on the collar and flinging it aside. Kirin went limp when the collar was gone, his dark eyes staring

emptily up at the ceiling—he didn’t even seem to notice Gredar was there. “Stay still, I’ll be back soon.”

“Jilen!” he bellowed as he ran down the stairs. “Jilen! Buhi!” Where was everyone?

Karwa poked his head out. “Uncle Gredar? Grandmother wants to know what you’re shouting for.”

“Where’s your aunt Jilen? I need her, urgently!”

“In the kitlings’ room—come on.”

His nephew took his hand and together they ran up the west staircase. Gredar burst into the bedroom.

“Jilen, please, come—Kirin’s dying!”

His twin was holding her youngest kits over her shoulders, rubbing their backs as if she’d just

finished feeding them. It was undoubtedly an inconvenient time, but she handed her children over to her

nephew to hold without the slightest demur.

“What’s wrong?” she asked as she stood, composed as always.

“He’s, he’s....” Gredar swallowed, still in shock from what he’d found. “He’s feverish, bruised—no

water, I thought Buhi was looking after him, Jilen, he looks so—”

“Calm down. Let me get my pack. You better get some clean water. We can ask Buhi later what’s

happened.”

His heart still hammering in his chest, Gredar let his calm, confident twin take charge. She got what

she needed from her workroom and led the way back to his quarters. No doubt she thought him a fool but she

said nothing and showed nothing of censure in her manner. She wrinkled her nose at the smell as she opened

the door. “What’s that stink?”

“Rotting food, I’ll clear...Kirin!”

He stopped, amazed to see his pet sitting on the table, swaying dangerously, his eyes glittering with

fever, his skin flushed and covered with angry red scratches and marks. He had Gredar’s camping knife in his

hand, and as Gredar started to approach, Kirin flung something at him. A rope...no...his braid of black hair,

hacked off at the root.

“Kirin, no, that’s naughty....”

Kirin, gaunt and fragile with his ragged hair swinging around his face, held the knife in front of

himself threateningly and made an angry sound.

Jilen came up beside him. “Gredar, what’s he done to your desk? He’s damaged it.”

And he had—slashed angry lines into the polished surface, ruining it. Gredar stared at the gouges,

then at his pet, in confusion. Why would he do such at thing after all this time? He took a step forward.

“Kirin?”

Kirin screamed hoarsely and thumped the marks with his fist, then thumped his chest. Gredar halted

—his pet had never behaved this way before, and illness didn’t explain this. Kirin repeated the gesture and

his eyes seemed to be asking for something....

Thump on the marks. Thump on his chest, then pointing. Pointing at him, then the desk, all the while

vocalising in his harsh, damaged voice. Almost as if he was trying to tell them something—but what? If

Gredar could calm his pet down, they might be able to work out what had got him so distressed, but he could

do nothing for the creature like this. He had to catch him up, but carefully.

As he held up his hands placatingly, easing closer, hoping to make a leap for his jopa, Kirin angrily

slashed the knife toward him as if to warn him to stay back. Gredar stopped, made soothing sounds—Kirin

swung again, but then he suddenly shuddered, the knife falling from his hands as he toppled sideways.

Gredar reached him in time to prevent him hitting the floor, Jilen helping him lift Kirin to the bed.

There they could examine him properly, and Gredar, who’d been in too much of a hurry to fetch his

physician sister to look before, now stared aghast at the extent of Kirin’s injuries. Long claw marks and

scratches, many puffy and red, marred most of the surface of his skin, while bruises coloured the flesh

underneath, more lurid than Gredar had ever seen on an animal before. Kirin was so badly damaged, and yet

Gredar had left him safe, or so he’d thought.

“What was he doing?” Jilen asked, as she began her gentle examination of the small, naked body. She

bent and sniffed the angry scratch marks and licking the hot skin, testing its temperature and condition.

“Scratching your table like that.”

Gredar looked at the marks on the wood, the regular shape to the lines, and his mind replayed the

curious gestures Kirin made regarding them. He came to a horrifying realisation. “He was trying to tell us his

name,” he whispered. “Jilen—he has a name.” She looked at him, astonished. “What have I done?”

~~~~~~~~

Kirin wasn’t dying, but he might yet die, and Gredar didn’t know if he could bear that, knowing it

was all his fault, and that he’d kept something—some
one
—who was aware and very likely as intelligent as

himself, captive for weeks and been the cause of his suffering now. Jilen worked to deal with the infection

and dehydration that were the most serious problems, cleaning the inflamed scratches and putting salve on

the more serious injuries. Gredar helped her, and under her supervision, spooned sweetened water into