Arrival
By S.H. Gabriel
Venla wiped the boy clean upon the hem of her dress, and for a moment, recoiled.
Fangs like a predator. Ears, far too long. And… a tail. Slick and serpentine, twitching with animality.
And yet — those tiny, seeking hands, his soft green skin — new as moss after rain.
The contradiction of him was unbearable — foreign and her own at the same time. She held her breath on the verge of tears.
Then the boy opened his eyes.
They were amber and luminous. Alien. A predator’s gaze set in a cherub’s face.
Her heart jolted. She wanted to look away, but the eyes held her — steady, unblinking, curious.
Venla traced the beauty marks under his right eye. They mirrored hers. Her throat ached with wonder and terror.
When she tried to wrap him in her scarf, his tail resisted—flexing and flicking against her wrist like a sentient whip.
A sound escaped her — half sob, half laugh.
The boy didn’t cry. He was purring. His tail coiled her arm to rest against her chest as if it had decided that this — her heartbeat — was home.
She pressed him close. His ears flicking on her cheek, still slick and warm.
“I don’t know what in wind's name you are,” she whispered, “but you’re mine.”
