She wanted to argue, she really did, but Summer was practical enough to admit that she’d been lucky as hell when she’d run into the cay’ik. If she’d missed, or just wounded it, she’d be a cay’ik snack right now. Like it or not, this was an alien warrior who knew his own world very well. He knew the way—and the dangers—and he was willing to risk his life to take her to his family’s clanhall, the safest way he knew how.
All she had to do, for once in her life, was shut the hell up, follow the rules, and they would both come out of this fine.
Man, we are so screwed . . .
“Sure.” She gave a nod. “Fine. As far as I’m concerned, you’re the Jungle Jim of Hir.”
Clearly he caught the sarcasm, even if he didn’t get the reference. His jaw tightened.
Suddenly she sobered. There was a countdown happening and just talking here was wasting precious time.
“Yes,” she said, solemn now. “You lead, I’ll follow. I’ll do whatever you say. Just get me to the Erah clanhall. Help me get home.”
“I will bring you safely to the clanhall and to my father,” he said, plainly unwilling to promise more.” His gaze swept over her. “Get dressed. We depart as soon as I finish breaking camp.”
Five
“What are you doing?” Summer demanded as Ke’lar brought the multari to a halt and slid from the saddle behind her. “Why are we stopping?”
Not that the past couple hours had been fun—or comfortable either. They rode double, a tight fit on the g’hir saddle, she in front, her back pressed to the warmth of his body, his thighs pressed to the back of hers. The saddle had a handhold at the front that—since the multari stood at least eighteen hands high and the only light was courtesy of the Sister moons—Summer gripped white-knuckled as they sped over the gently hilly terrain of the westernmost Erah land. But Ke’lar wasn’t content to trust her safety to her own efforts, his massive arm encircling her waist to keep her securely on the beast, the reins held easily in one hand as they rode.
His greater height had her head resting in the curve of his shoulder and neck as they rode, his cheek against her temple, his skin smooth and free of stubble despite the late hour. G’hir males, despite their thick hair and heavy eyebrows, didn’t grow beards.
Her back felt cold without him behind her—g’hir body temperature was naturally higher than a human’s—and she shivered a bit with the chill. Her boots were somewhere in the packs but he’d found her some of his own soft foot coverings—too big of course—to keep her feet warm as they dangled over the multari’s sides.
He took the beast’s reins in hand and started to lead her at a walk. “We are far enough into the Erah territory now. The Betari would be foolish to venture this far into our lands, even to seek a stolen female.”
“I thought the whole point was to get to your clanhall quick. We should be riding like a bat out of hell!”
He gave her a quick, confused look and Summer sighed inwardly. Ar’ar had attached the translator chip to the language center of her brain when he’d first her brought her onto his ship. Since then she’d learned the thing did some peculiar and unexpected things when translating English idioms onto the g’hir side of things.
“I mean,” she began before he could ask what a flying mammal would be doing in the human underworld, “we should continue to travel as fast as we can. Between her speed and your night vision we were making seriously good time.”
“Pushing our only multari beyond her capabilities will only leave us walking the entire way rather than part of it—and shouldering our own supplies as well.”
“Wait, you’re kidding, right? You’re going to walk her? For how long??”
“Beya is growing fatigued carrying so much weight. She is not young. We cannot ride her to exhaustion.”
“You really care about this thing, don’t you?” she blurted.
His gaze snapped to her from his place leading the multari. “That surprises you?”
“I don’t know.” She tucked her hair behind her ears—again. Dozens of girly hair accessories back in the dressing room they gave her at the Betari clanhall and she hadn’t even grabbed a clip to hold her hair back. “Yeah, I guess so.”
His nostrils flared. “Truly, you do think the g’hir monsters if you believe us incapable of attachment.”
“Look, I didn’t mean . . . I’m sure your people have feelings, anyway.”
“How observant of you,” he grumbled then indicated the multari with a g’hir’s nod and his tone softened. “Beya came to me as a filly, a gift from my father when I reached nine summers, with clumsy legs too long for her body and a playful heart.” He stroked the animal’s nose with the palm of his hand and she tossed her head a bit as if to encourage him to continue. “I trained her myself, rising early to feed and water her. She was my sole companion on the many long and lonely ventures into the wilderness needed to earn my place as a warrior. But that was twenty years ago. She has this summer left . . . perhaps one more.” His voice was fond but heavy too, his touch gentle on the mount’s nose. “And then I, like so many of our warriors, will walk alone.”