Page 6 of Cursed Alien

“Come on, you stubborn piece of junk,” she muttered, wiping her hand on her already stained coveralls.

The small generator had been giving her trouble all morning. Normally, she’d lose herself in the work, finding peace in the logical puzzles of gears and circuits. But today, her mind kept wandering to the mountains.

Papa should have been back three days ago.

She set down her wrench and rubbed her eyes, leaving a smudge of grease across her cheek. The annual fair only lasted two days. Even if he’d stayed for the entire event and taken his time on the return journey, he should have made it back by now.

The workshop felt too quiet without him. No humming as he tinkered with inventions, no gentle teasing about her single-minded focus when she worked, no discussions of their latest projects over shared meals.

“Maybe the wagon broke down,” she said to the empty room. “Or he sold everything and decided to stay an extra day to celebrate.”

The excuses sounded hollow even to her own ears.

She paced restlessly to the front window, scanning the road that led to the village center. A few villagers milled about, going about their daily business. Mrs. Holden and her daughter carried baskets from the market. Two farmers whose names she couldn’t remember paused their conversation to stare at her workshop before continuing on their way, heads bent close together.

Her lips thinned. The village had been buzzing with tension since the bonding ceremony between Korrin and Tessa. The negotiations with the Vultor had stalled afterward, and rumors spread faster than wildfire. Some claimed the Vultor had shown their true nature during the ceremony, others insisted they’d been insulted by some human misstep.

She hadn’t been there. She’d intended to go—she’d even pulled out her one good dress—but something had stopped her. Maybe it was the thought of all the stares and whispers from the other villagers at seeing her in a dress. Or maybe it was simply that witnessing her friend’s happiness would only make her own loneliness more acute. Instead she’d sat in her darkened room and watched the villagers stream by, full of excited chatter.

Whatever the truth about what had happened there, the timing couldn’t be worse. If she mentioned her father had gone through Vultor territory and hadn’t returned, it would only fuel the fire.

I have to go after him.

The only problem was the route. She gave the crude map she’d made of the region a worried look. Her father had taken the detailed one he’d found with him, but she’d sketched out what she remembered. Unfortunately the area where the road entered the mountains and which pass it took remained frustratingly vague.

“I should have gone with him,” she said, tracing the line of the road with her fingertip until it disappeared into the blank space representing the mountains. She’d never traveled that way herself, and asking around would only raise questions she didn’t want to answer.

She paced the workshop, her boots scuffing against the worn floorboards. In addition to the generator, a pile of half-finished projects cluttered her workbench—repairs for villagers that would have to wait. The copper wings of the small mechanical bird gleamed in the sunlight.

“What would you do, Papa?” she whispered.

Movement outside caught her attention. Peering through the window, she spotted a small, silver-haired figure making her way down the village path. Agatha Ashworth, her back straight despite her years, a basket over one arm.

Her pulse quickened as an idea struck her. Agatha had lived in the village longer than anyone else, and unlike most humans, she seemed comfortable around the Vultor. More than once, Bella had spotted her in conversation with one of them during the negotiations, speaking with an ease that suggested familiarity.

She wiped her hands on a rag and hurried to the door.

“Mrs. Ashworth!” she called, stepping onto the porch. “Could I trouble you for a moment?”

Agatha paused, sharp brown eyes assessing Bella with unsettling directness before her face softened into a smile. “Bella. It’s been some time since we’ve spoken.”

“I was wondering if you might come in for tea,” she said awkwardly. She rarely entertained visitors, and domestic skills had never been her strong suit.

“Tea would be welcome after my journey. Lead the way, child,” Agatha replied, climbing the steps with surprising agility for her age. “And you can tell me what’s troubling you.”

She blinked. “How did you?—”

“You have grease on your face, dear,” Agatha interrupted gently. “And you’re fidgeting with your hands. You only do that when you’re worried.”

Heat filled her cheeks as she led the older woman back into the workshop and hurriedly cleared space on a small table tucked in the corner. “I didn’t realize I was so transparent.”

Agatha smiled as she placed her basket on the table. “Only to those who pay attention.”

She set water to boil, conscious of the old woman’s assessing gaze taking in the organized chaos of the workshop.

“You keep a tidy shop,” Agatha added, settling into the chair Bella offered. “Your father trained you well.”

“He did,” she agreed, fishing out the least-chipped mugs she could find. “Though I’m afraid housekeeping isn’t my strong suit.”

---