Page 3 of Zinnia and the Zombie
Damaged.The thought triggered a memory but it hovered just out of reach, too distant for him to grasp.
Energy signatures surrounded him. A ship, a crew, and others who were not crew. There was fear there—fear and desperation. But there was another signature. The warmth he had noticed. A person. A female. He wasn’t sure how he knew, but he was convinced he was correct. But despite her warmth, there was fear in her signature as well, and sorrow. That sorrow bothered him. He wanted to comfort her, but when he tried to break the stasis, his body didn’t respond. Part of himrecognized that this was wrong, but as that tantalizing warmth moved away, he drifted back into his protective shell.
CHAPTER TWO
Zinnia finally managed to wrestle her emotions under control. She had learned long ago that crying never really helped. She dashed angrily at the tears still sliding down her cheeks, then looked up at the very large statue she’d been leaning against. It was as exquisite as the vase, the craftsmanship equally superb.
The statue was of a huge alien male—at least she assumed he was a male, given his broad shoulders and heavily muscled arms and legs, even though he had no genitalia. Instead, a subtle, scaled pattern spread across his chest and down over his stomach and groin. The scaled pattern appeared in other places as well—the insides of his elbows and wrists, behind his knees, and down the backs of his legs. It was almost like some kind of armor, except the armor was part of him.
Is he real?she wondered as she climbed to her feet to inspect him more closely. Was the statue an accurate depiction of an actual species or a figment of the artist’s imagination? He looked so lifelike, almost as if he were simply asleep. His features were not that dissimilar to human features, despite the scaledmarkings that ran up his neck and along both sides of his face. But even without those markings, he was clearly not human. His jaw was sharply angled, his mouth wider, his eyes larger. His ears were flat and close to his head, almost as if they were closed, just as his eyes were.
She found herself wondering what color his eyes were. There was something almost hypnotic about his stillness, and she had the strange urge to press her lips against his to see if he would wake up, like the male equivalent of Sleeping Beauty. Shaking her head at her own foolishness, she switched her attention back to the rest of the shipping container. Since it appeared that she was going to be here for a while, what could she do to make her circumstances more comfortable? It wouldn’t be the first time she’d had to make a home out of practically nothing.
Home.
Tears pricked her eyes again but she blinked them away, determined not to give in to her emotions, and concentrated on more practical matters.
She managed to drag some of the smaller boxes together to create a relatively flat platform next to her statue. She told herself it was because of the light he provided, but there was something oddly comforting about his presence. He made her feel less alone.
The platform she’d created was only marginally softer than the metal floor and she eyed the rugs speculatively. They were secured by plastic tethers, but she eventually managed to pick apart the knots on one and unroll it to find an incredibly soft, silky, white fur. She had the uneasy feeling that it was probably as valuable as the vase or the statue, but her captors hadn’t told her she couldn’t touch anything.
She spread it over the boxes and even though it wasn’t particularly thick, it provided a surprising amount of padding. Now she had food, water, and a place to rest.
It was a start.
Eyeing the other boxes, she wondered if they contained anything useful, such as weapons of some kind. They were all labeled but the symbols meant nothing to her. Whatever the guards had done to enable her to understand them hadn’t extended as far as written language.
She tried opening one but she couldn’t find any type of catch and her attempt to pry it open proved frustratingly unsuccessful. Sighing, she returned to her bed platform. Now what? She’d never been good with enforced idleness.
“Looks like we’re going to be stuck together for a while,” she told her statue, then shivered at the thought of what might happen when the guards returned.
She found herself leaning against the statue again, and this time she noticed that the metal wasn’t as cold as she expected.
“I wonder what you’re made of. And who created you. I wish you were a real boy—a real man, I mean.”
It was a foolish notion. Being trapped in a small space with a huge alien warrior wasn’t likely to help her current situation, and just because she found him attractive didn’t mean he’d be safe. Another lesson she’d learned at a young age—good looks often concealed bad intentions. Still, she found herself stroking her fingers over the metal, tracing the contours of his legs and thighs, exploring the contrast between the smooth metal and the textured areas.
“I wish…”
She trailed her fingers up his thigh, then jerked them back.
“Shit, am I actually checking him out? I’m a captive, on an alien spaceship, about to be sold into God knows what, and all I can think about is how attractive the big golden statue is. Maybe I’m in shock.”
But there was still something comforting about her statue, and she curled up against him. Despite his size, he didn’t feel threatening, and his warmth was a welcome change from the chill of the container. Before she knew it, her eyes were drifting shut, and she surrendered to the sweet oblivion of sleep.
The warmth had returned,along with a soft voice murmuring words he couldn’t quite make out.
More of Jaxx’s consciousness surfaced, and with it, more of his memories. The battle. His ship had been in a battle. They had been betrayed by one of their own, and the enemy was on board, fighting hand-to-hand. They were hopelessly outnumbered, but there was no choice. There could be no surrender.
There was someone else there as well, someone he couldn’t quite remember. They hadn’t been fighting, merely watching as his crew had fallen around him. His second-in-command, a male he’d known since they were children, had been cut down at his side. He’d seen Bartax’s body start to stiffen, but recognized instantly that it was too late. A direct blow to the heart was more than any Zathix warrior could heal. His grief had turned to rage, and he fought harder, determined to take as many of the enemy with him as he could. But there were too many. They just kept coming.
He’d seen the sword slicing toward his neck and knew he couldn’t parry it. It was over.
Except it hadn’t been. He must have managed to block the blow enough to prevent it from decapitating him, but the wound had been severe enough to throw him into stasis. Stasis was a healing state, allowing his body to repair itself, shielded from all outside threats. Normally, there would have been medics or his fellow warriors to bring him around, but there had been no one.
How long?he wondered again. He couldn’t be sure but he thought it had been any, many cycles.
There had been other periods like this, moments when more of his consciousness returned, but they had never lasted. The first one he remembered, he was being moved, taken from one ship to another. Not this ship—the energy signatures had been different—but he hadn’t cared. They were not his people, and he’d given in to grief. There had been other transfers, other times when someone or something had roused him, but it had never been enough. Perhaps he hadn’t wanted it to be enough. Why should he live when all those he cared about were gone?
