The forefinger and thumb of her right hand pinched the shaft of an invisible needle as she imagined stitching his striking profile. She saved all her scraps of silk thread from her commissions. Usually she used them for her veil, but a small, painterly portrait wouldn’t use too much?—
There’s no time,she firmly reminded herself.Work needs to be done. I can’t keep Adon waiting.
But no matter how hard she tried to divert it, Alashiya’s focus continued to wander back to the moment they’d shared in his room. She’d never experiencedwonderin the way she had when the heat of him touched her. And when those dark lashes lowered over his unsettling eyes, the compulsion to lean closer had been a living thing under her skin.
She was still thinking about the scent of him — something rich and earthy, like smoke and spices — when she finally made it to town.
Calling Birchdale a town was, by most estimations, a stretch. It was more of a pit stop for hikers, hunters, and boaters than anything else. Once, it’d been a thriving trading town, where the border between the UTA and the Northern Territory blurred. Fur trappers, loggers, and farmers had made a go of it for a while, and though the town had never been exactly metropolitan, it had a tight community, a main street of shops, a schoolhouse, and even its own all-god temple, where many priests and priestesses had passed through in their travels.
The war had destroyed most of that, and the reshuffling of the territory into shifter hands had done the rest. Opportunity had moved elsewhere and the people along with it.
That was why her grove had been able to buy their land so cheaply. It was also why, when Alashiya stepped out from behind an old, shuttered storefront onto the main road, it was into a town that consisted of one general store, a community center/library, and a post office that only opened on odd days of theweek. The rest of it consisted of vacation rentals and the scant few locals who remained to maintain the dying town during the off-season.
An enterprising soul had once tried to open a small restaurant, aiming to feed the hungry tourists who made the mistake of forgoing snacks at the last rest stop two hours down the road, but the seasonal flood and drought of customers had ended the venture after only one year. It was big news for a while, but every local knew it was doomed before they’d even opened the doors.
As always, Alashiya looked both ways before she hustled across the road, her arms held tightly to her body and her awareness of the world around her stretched taut. There were a handful of new but mud-flecked vehicles parked in front of the general store. She eyed them with dread.
Hitching her bag over her shoulder, she firmed her jaw and pushed the door open. A riotous tinkling of bells announced her entrance into the old store. Its shelves were mismatched, the walls covered in hunting trophies, decades of promotional displays, and various bits of dusty hiking gear. A wall of ancient refrigerators chugged along at the far end of the shop, full of a minimal selection of perishables and fishing bait.
Alashiya rarely needed much from the store, as she grew most of her own food, however, things like flour, baking soda, cleaning necessities, and cooking oil had to be purchased. She’d been going to the shop all her life and had even attended school with Debbie’s kids, but she still dreaded the inevitable greeting that drew every stranger’s eye in her direction.
“Morning, Shiya.” Debbie, the old woman who’d run the business since Light and Darkness created the Earth, probably, waved a liver-spotted hand stained yellow by tobacco in Alashiya’s direction.
She met only Debbie’s rheumy gaze, but she was aware of the three men standing at the counter. It was impossible not to be, when she could feel their eyes on her like a bunch of sweaty hands.
“Good morning, Debbie,” she muttered, offering thequickest smile. Picking up an old wire shopping basket, Alashiya moved quickly toward her relevant aisles, her head down.
“You outta that flour already?” Debbie croaked, content to ignore the customers standing right in front of her. “Oh, I meant to ask you last time if you had any of those plums in yet. Mike won’t shut up about it.”
Without looking up, Alashiya answered, “My first crop of plums got eaten by birds, but I can bring you and Mike some of what’s coming in next week, I think.” Cruising down the medicine and toiletry aisle, she hastily gathered some fever reducers and anything else she thought might help the dragon.
What can aspirin do against being drugged for weeks?She grimaced and put another bottle in her basket.
The strangers at the counter talked amongst themselves. Their voices were too low for her to make out what they were saying, but she was happy their attention had moved off of her. Quickly gathering eggs, salt, and a few other essentials to avert any attention to her other purchases, Alashiya paused by the small selection of shampoos and pretended to browse.
A furtive glance at the counter found the group of men still standing there, their heads bent as they continued their discussion in more hushed tones. They were all dressed in typical hiking gear and appeared, to her untrained eye, to be human. Their body language was stiff, their backs almost unnaturally straight.
Uneasy about moving closer to the group but lacking a choice, Alashiya ducked her chin and shuffled down the aisle.
As soon as she stepped away from the shelves, the men went silent. Startled, her gaze snapped to them reflexively. All three men were watching her again. That wasn’t altogether unusual.
Nymphs were desirable to many, if only because of their perceived vulnerability. Eyes followed her whenever she dared to venture into the town. But this was different. A chill ran down her spine when she met the eye of the tallest one. He was average looking, with light skin and closely-shorn hair. He could’ve been her age, or perhaps a little bit older. He was powerfully built, likemany of the more enthusiastic recreationists who came through Birchdale.
Nothing about him was extraordinary, save for the way he looked at her.
Alashiya’s fingers curled tightly around the handle of her basket. Her gaze skittered between the three faces. They wore identical expressions — or rather, non-expressions. Their eyes were blank. There was no desire, no interest, no malice or even polite curiosity when they watched her. There was… nothing.
When they continued to stare, their large bodies completely still, Alashiya tore her gaze away and forced her feet to move. Debbie didn’t appear to notice the strange exchange. She was busy watching a program on her tablet, which was propped up by a cheap tackle box, and occasionally spitting into a can with the tab torn off.
Alashiya’s grandmother had once told her that people were drawn to nymphs because they radiated the stuff of life, all the carnal things they might reject and yet crave. Maybe that was true, but she didn’t get the sense that the men watched her like they craved something. They looked at her like she was an insect they’d never encountered before, with neither disgust nor true interest. She was justthere,and at any moment they might deem her unimportant enough to trod on.
“You done?” The sound of Debbie’s familiar, put-upon croak made her jump.
“Um, yes,” she answered, accidentally thumping her basket down on the chipped formica countertop. Cold sweat slicked the back of her neck as she forced her attention away from the strange men.
Debbie muttered a token complaint about something Alashiya didn’t catch — probably something about Mike, or the weather, or her children, who were all a pain in her ass. There was an uncomfortable buzzing in Alashiya’s ears as she watched the old woman carefully ring up every item. She needed to ask Debbie a question, but her mouth was too dry to form words.
“…don’t forget the plums next time. I’ll trade you those noodles you like, but only for the good ones.”
