“All the time,” I said. “It just means wife, right?”
“Aw, babe,” he shook his head. “It’s too late. This guy’s in love with you.”
“No, he isn’t. You can’t fall in love this quickly.”
His lips flattened in a grim line. “Aneahdoesn’t mean wife, babe. Is that what he told you?”
“It was the impression I got from the translation,” I said. “Why? What does it mean?”
“We don’t have wives and husbands,” Qhev said. “We have mates. Mates we choose. But some daernir believe sometimes our mates are chosen for us.”
“Like arranged matches,” I said, nodding. “He mentioned his cousin is doing that.”
“Uh, no,” Qhev snorted. “That’sweird. I’m talking about like… I don’t know what you call it, but I know you have something like it.Ibar. It’s like… a divine entity that makes things happen sometimes.”
“Fate.That’s what the translation says,” I offered.
Qhev shrugged. “Is that some invisible, powerful thing that messes around in your lives?”
“Pretty much,” I agreed.
“Then, yeah. You choose a mate, butIbarchooses yourAneah.It’s not up to you, and it’s never wrong.” He relaxed back into his cushions, waving a dismissive hand. “If you believe in that stuff. But if he’s calling youAneah, he probably does.”
“He thinks I’m his soul mate or something?” I shook my head. “That’s crazy.”
“Yeah, it’s deranged,” Qhev agreed. “But have fun breaking his heart.”
“Qhev, no. Why are you doing this?”
“Babe,” his head rolled back, his long silver hair pooling in the cushions behind him. “I just thought you might want to know what you’re walking into.”
“But I’m freaking out, now,” I whined. “I had myself all hyped up to do this, and now you’re telling me he’s in love with me. You don’t understand. This is not a normal guy.”
“What do you know about daernir normal?”
“What’s a ceket?” I asked.
He made a face. “Random.”
“It’s a big fish with teeth, right?”
“Yeah?”
“Do you go swimming with them? At night?”
“No. What the…?”
“The first time he called me, he had a big gash on his side,” I said. “He was cleaning it up while he talked to me like it was no big deal. He said he got it swimming with cekets.”
“Cora, babe…. Was he wet? His hair and clothes?”
I thought back, but I was sure he hadn’t been. “No.”
“And it was a gash? Not a bunch of gashes? He didn’t have an arm or a leg ripped off?”
“No, of course not,” I huffed. “It was one long gash. It looked really bad, though. On Earth, it would have needed a trip to the hospital for stitches.”
There was a pause, presumably while some of that filtered through his translator. Looking a little queasy, he said, “Don’t tell me any more about stitches. But look. Cekets fuck shit up fast. If one bit him, a mob of them would have bitten him within seconds, too. He’d have been torn apart. So… Call it a joke or a lie, but that is not what happened.”
