Page 7 of Invasive Species (Outcasts of Oloria #2)

FIVE

ARABELLA

Reading through the list Gara helped me with makes everything flow a little easier. All I need to do is one task at a time, and ignore the rest. Or try to, anyway.

Because the alien’s lean-to is really calling to me. It’s not one of my canvases, but it’s got that potentiality—is that a word? It is now—this kind of simmering, shimmering quality, like the rainbow on a soap bubble. I can be anything , it whispers to me. Come find out what I could be .

But the animals really do come first. Fortunately, there are no breaks in the fences, and the sheep have what looks like plenty of hay inside a circular grate thing where they stick their heads in to tear at it without trampling the food. Clever, really.

But how long until that runs out? Because when it does, I’m going to have to haul hay around. I flex my arms. I’m fit from all the swimming I do, but lifting and shifting is something else entirely. I’ll probably tip the bales over, and Gara will have to fish me out again.

My cheeks flush. I don’t really want to ask him for help with the hay. With every word I spoke, his face got more and more stormy, his scales going dark green as if trying to hide in shadow.

“Maybe he woke up on the wrong side of the pile this morning,” I console myself.

Except I get, like, a sense when someone’s pissed off with me.

Sometimes when I look up after I’ve been talking a mile a minute, I notice it flash across their face: a kind of exhaustion in their eyes, followed by relief when I make my excuses and leave.

At least I know where I am with Gara, but standing next to him really helped me think through my shit this morning. His big, thick arms folded so tight across his chest, like he held himself in. Or maybe blocking everything else out. Hard abs pebbled his stomach, flexing with every breath.

My stomach gargles, and I smack the heel of my hand to my forehead. “No wonder he's pissed. We haven't had breakfast.”

Ellen usually makes scrambled eggs on toast first thing. What time is it now? I squint at my cracked phone screen. Shit, half one. They're probably starving, and they're way too polite to demand some nosh.

“Shit, shit, shit,” I mutter, running back to the farmyard. Still can't find Floss pottering about the yard. Instead, Old Mae struts from the coop, giving a throaty cackle as I skid to a halt right outside the run. But when I jump over the gate, she bristles.

“Time for breakfast,” I sing out toward the barn. “Better late than never.”

Mae fluffs her feathers, extending her neck and hissing at me. Chickens hiss? I had no idea.

“Let me through, babes,” I coo, reaching to stroke her fluffy head. Ellen does this before she goes inside to retrieve the eggs.

Mae lunges, beak snapping at my fingers, and flaps her wings, thwacking my arm.

I curl into myself. “Ah...”

“Get back,” Gara growls. He leaps over the gate and plants himself between me and Mae, fists bunched.

I grab his arm. “Don't hurt her.”

He glowers down at me. “I wasn't going to.”

“Could have fooled me,” I mutter. Gara's glare could melt paint off a canvas.

“What task are you accomplishing now?” he asks.

The question makes me think I'm under a microscope. I don't accomplish much if anything, I'm lucky if I start something, let alone finish it. But that has to change; I'm in charge now. “Breakfast. We need eggs.”

Inclining his head, Gara stoops and shoulders into the coop. I follow into the warm, dark space. Which is now very full of muscly green alien.

“Where are the eggs?” he grunts.

“Nestled in the hay. You've gotta be slow and gentle.” Hard for me with my sensory issues.

I deliberately spread out my fingers, letting out a low breath, and try to feel everything around me.

But all my attention snaps to Gara as he bends low, easing his huge hand into the crackling hay.

He's so big, but he barely snaps a single strand.

“Ah.” His low gasp of surprise rocks through me. Withdrawing, he holds up a speckled brown egg in triumph.

“That's right, you've got it.” My hands shake so much a hen gets up nearby, flouncing off. I collect as many eggs as I can before the pile threatens to topple.

As we exit, Gara takes a deep breath, and I explain, “Yeah, stinks in there, doesn't it?”

He only gives me a tight nod, dark green eyes unfathomable.

The rest of the aliens crowd around the coop, the three purple ones staring at the ground and the pilot looking up at the clouds chasing across the sky .

“Hungry?” I ask them.

“We can cope, female,” the lilac-eyed purple one intones.

“My name's Arabella.”

He bows his head. “Yes, female.”

I glance at Gara and catch his grimace. He quickly clears his face, but I know what I saw. I guess his colleague's overly deferential attitude doesn't sit well with him, either.

“Honestly, you don't have to stand on ceremony with us, and certainly not me,” I explain, leading the way to the farmhouse. “It's really fine.”

Silence meets my assertion. Wonderful.

Inside, I gently ease my armful of eggs onto the counter, catching the ones which wobble away. One rolls straight to the edge, on a mission, and I lunge for it.

Gara snatches it up, but my hand crashes into his. “Oops.”

He sets the egg on the surface. “Here.”

“Thanks.”

There's this look Gara gets whenever I thank him, like he's not sure what it means. Maybe they don't.

As I grab what looks like a plastic skillet I explain, “Thank you means I appreciate the effort. A typical response is ‘You’re welcome’ or ‘No worries’.”

The purple-eyed triplets loom behind Gara. “Has he not been supplying the proper response?”

Gara's shoulders stiffen ever so slightly. “I didn't know the correct response until just now,” he replies, voice even more like he's eaten a bag of gravel. His neon green eyes meet mine, fiery defiance burning in them. “You're welcome,” he bites out.

Wow, I've never felt less welcome. “No problem.”

“No worries,” Gara retorts, raising his chin as if challenging me.

“It's my pleasure,” I volley back .

He blinks once, the only hesitation before he replies bitterly, “It's my purpose to serve.”

Hm, I certainly get that impression. “You win,” I say. “You can all sit down while I… uh…” Shit. This stove is an Aga, on all the time to heat the house as well as cook things. I lift what looks like a lid on the stove to find a warm ring, then slide the skillet on.

“Okay. Next, break eggs.” I can't fail that; I'm always breaking things.

I crack them into a relatively clean looking jug, then whisk them together.

There isn't any milk in the fridge, and no cheese either.

Ellen makes bread every day but how she does it might as well be magic to me.

In fact, everything my friend does is pure magic.

She can get up, get her shit together, and check items off a mental to-do list without a single hiccup.

I sniff the air. “Whoa, that’s smoky. Who’s on fire?”

Gara snatches the skillet off the stove, hardened scales clinking against the plastic handle. “This is melting.”

“Oh, fuck. Ellen puts special pans on the Aga. Shit, I just melted something else. Not a skillet. Looks like… well, looks like a Salvador Dali painting. Kind of dig it.”

Gara turns the mess over in the air, nose wrinkling. “Smells like aerated aromatic hydrocarbons. Do not breathe the fumes in.”

“Yeah, probably no good for the brain.” Taking the mess from him, I slide it into the sink to deal with later. “Uh, right. Eggs. In a special pan, a metal one.” I search the kitchen for the correct beast.

“How can we help you?” Purple-eyed alien says from the table, shooting a simmering glare at Gara. But Gara's the king of glares: he doesn't even rock back from it, just turns to me, arms folded.

I rub my temples. “How about… another list? I… I need help organizing tasks sometimes.” Like when I'm super in over my head.

Slowly, Gara pulls out his device from his belt. “Concerning?”

“Making breakfast. I need to find the metal pan. Whisk the eggs, done. Find bread, toast and butter it. Uh, add bread to a shopping list. Cook the eggs?—”

“Is that a different list?” Gara asks, hands flying over his computer pad thing. Symbols dance above it, like ancient runes in a sorcerer's spell.

I slide across the kitchen to his elbow. “So cool. How does it work? Can I touch them?”

He grunts, the arm I'm leaning on stiffening as his scales harden. “It works via biomechanical feedback, and projects using phototonic rays. The scanner element takes chemical signature samples through magnetic resonance, but it can also rearrange elements to make target materials.”

It's a miracle: I didn't zone out. Somehow, Gara's voice manages to make technobabble sound… well, sexy.

“Can you send lists to my phone?” I fish out my battered Samsung.

“Right now? Is this a priority?” Gara asks, and at the table purple-eyes rumbles deep in his chest, practically vibrating the kitchen.

Okay, weird.

“Eh, probably not.” I turn to the triplets. “What are your names again?”

The yellow-eyed triplet points at the gray eyed one. “Nevare.” At purple. “Dom.” And himself. “Arik.”

Arik has yellow eyes, Nevare’s are gray, purple is Dom. “I'll try to remember. Thanks.”

“You're welcome,” Arik replies, and I give him a thumbs up. He returns it, face softening into a smile .

Gara puts his own thumb up. “What does this indicate?”

“Okay, yes, great, good job.” I boop Gara's right thumb with my own. His dwarfs mine, a giant tree to the tiny druid trying to approach it.

He drops his hand, staring down at me.

And then I realize I've curled the fingers of my left hand around his elbow, fixing him in place.

I dart back. “Uh, cool. Awesome.” I busy myself trying to find… what was it again?