She smirks. Her eyes narrow, and I can see she is not buying the lie. She knows what my Bouda is saying about her. She can probably feel it in the bond the same way I can feel her pulse quicken from three feet away.
I hold up the wood. “I am ready to start the fire for you, Kendra.”
“Okay.”
I wait. She does not move. She crosses one leg over the other and leans deeper into the chair, watching me with an expression I cannot read and do not trust. I stand there holding enough firewood to heat the cabin for two days and she sits there like the porch belongs to her, which, I remind myself, it does.
“Well,” she says, waving a hand toward the door, “you can go take care of that. I’ll be in in a little while.”
A sound rises in my throat that is dangerously close to a whimper. My Bouda snaps to attention.Say it, Alemayehu. Say what you want, or I will take over and carry her inside myself. You have three seconds.
“I want you to come inside with me.” The words come out rough, more command than request, and I regret them the moment they leave my mouth.
Kendra raises an eyebrow. She does not look offended. She looks pleased. “Are you asking me, or are you telling me?”
I do not know what to do with this question. My Bouda is supposed to help me in moments like these, but he is laughing again, a low and unhelpful sound that rumbles through my ribs.You do not know how to play the game, Alemayehu. You are a hunter, not a suitor. But she is teaching you, and you are failing beautifully.
“I want you to come inside with me,” I say again, and this time I do not apologize for the authority in my voice. She asked for it. I am giving it.
Her smile widens. She stands from the chair. “Hmm. I like that. The authority in your tone.” She holds my gaze and says, “Alemayehu.”
My name in her mouth. She says it like she has been practicing the syllables, rolling them across her tongue to see how they taste, and the sound of it makes me suck in a breath so sharp that my ridge lifts an inch before I can press it down.
She walks toward me, close enough that I can feel the cold radiating off her skin. Her hand comes up and presses flat against my chest, right over the place where the bond burns hottest. My arms are full of firewood and I cannot touch her back and she knows it.
Then she opens the door and steps inside, leaving me on the porch with an armful of logs and a Bouda who will not stop laughing.
You see?he says.Was that so difficult?
I shake my head and follow her in, pulling the door shut against the cold.
* * *
Kendra is standing at the kitchen counter with Zaki, and the argument has already started. I set the logs by the fireplace and begin building the fire while their voices carry across the room.
“Chicken is protein, Zaki. Processed or not, it’s still food and I’m not letting you stop me from cooking a meal in my own kitchen.”
My sister’s ridge twitches. “That meat has been dead for weeks. It has been frozen, thawed, packaged in chemicals, and shipped across the country in a truck. It is not food. It is an insult to your body.”
Kendra ignores this. She pulls the leftover chicken from the refrigerator and sets it on the counter, then turns to Zaki with the look of a woman who has decided this is her hill.
“Alright. I’ll meet you halfway.” She points at my sister. “You prepare fruit, but I’m still eating my chicken. That’s the deal.”
Zaki holds the standoff for three full seconds before her jaw unclenches. She turns to the refrigerator without another word and begins pulling out strawberries, slicing them with more force than the task requires. The blade hits the cutting board like she is preparing for battle, which, knowing Zaki, she probably believes she is.
I arrange the kindling and light the fire, coaxing the flame until it catches and holds. By the time the fire is steady, Kendra has fixed her plate, and Zaki has assembled another bowl of fruit. They finish at the same moment, and Zaki begins setting the table.
Kendra walks past with her plate, crosses the room, and sits on the sofa. She sets the plate in her lap and picks up a piece of chicken with her fingers.
Zaki stares at the empty chair she just pulled out. Her ridge spikes once, the calcified blades extending a full inch before she forces them down. I keep my expression neutral, though my Bouda finds this endlessly entertaining.
“So,” Kendra says between bites, looking over at me. “What does a queen actually do for the Bouda clan? Like, what’s the job description?”
I rise from the fireplace and brush the ash from my hands. This is a question I have been waiting for, and I choose my words carefully---the answer matters more than she knows.
“In the old ways, the Queen was the keeper of the clan’s memory and direction,” I tell her. “She decided when and where we moved, because Bouda are nomadic by blood. We follow the seasons, the herds, the rain. The Queen reads the landand tells us which way the wind is turning.” I pause, gathering the rest. “She also settled disputes within the cackle. When two males fought over territory or rank, the Queen spoke, and her word ended it. No appeal, no challenge. She held council with the elders, trained the young females in the frequencies of command, and led the first hunt of every wet season to bless the ground.”
Kendra has stopped chewing. Her fork hovers over her plate.
