The Fly House (The UtopYA Collection) (23 page)

Diem would be pleased.  He had her trapped after all. 

For that, she would give him a piece of her mind and it would be the piece where she kept the worst curse words that she had in her repertoire. 

She was still sitting beneath the window, stewing, when the floor trembled again.  Diem's whistle cut through the fraction of open window.  He did a series of whistles and then, he made a sound that made Maeve's veins boil.

Diem was laughing as he walked to the door of his shack.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Hot Season Six, Year 2095

Steven Burtman had been digging for days beside the rest of them and there was just no sight of Maeve.  He propped a rifle beside the opening where he dug, in case the mother of the dinosaur eggs came back. 

When the Archivers uncovered the first egg, there were shouts and cheers over the fact that they had food again.  Some, who hadn't known Maeve, wanted to stop digging because they figured there was no way a person could've survived such a solid collapse.  When Casper questioned the structural safeness of continuing to dig, everyone gave up.  Except Steven Burtman.  The twins brought him water and food and tried to get him to grieve Maeve's loss, but Steven wouldn't accept that she was gone.  He kept on digging until some of the Archivers banded together, worried that he would cave in more of their abode. 

They tried to drag him away, but he threw rocks at them. 

The
y tried again and he swung his bucket of dirt at them.

The third time, he pointed his gun.  That worked, until they found out it wasn't loaded. 

They succeeded in removing him, since his energy was just about vanquished from all the digging, but Steven returned shortly after with a pocket lighter and a can of hairspray that convinced the others to let him bury himself in another avalanche if he needed to.  He loaded his gun with bullets.  The other Archivers decided to roll the egg out, and down to Supply, before leaving Steven Burtman to eventually suffocate himself beneath a deluge of dirt and rock.

The digging seemed to do little good.  For every pail Steven dragged away, the disturbed rocks slid down to cover the small bit he was taking away.

If anyone had asked, Steven would have told them that he had to dig, even though there was little to no chance of finding Maeve alive any longer.  In the sketchy backdrop of his consciousness, he accepted that she was gone, but still, he couldn't stop digging.  The mechanics of it took over, lifting the veins beneath his skin like a beacon, compelling him to continue on and insisting that his efforts were not just necessary, but valuable. 

Steven gave in to the quest.  He continued, shovel after shovel, in hopes of revealing whatever it was that he needed so desperately to find.

***

Diem knew, the moment Forge touched down that Maeve had tried to leave.  And from the way the hens were still swarming the door, he knew she hadn't gotten anywhere.  He couldn't help but laugh as he whistled Forge and the hens back to their cave.  As embarrassing as it was, he was
exhilarated that Maeve would be waiting inside the shack.  He grabbed the door handle and—

One of Maeve's boots came flying at him.  The boot hit the door jamb, the buckles jingling like flat bells, right beside his head. 

"I am not your prisoner!" she shouted at him.  "You're not locking me in with your dragons!"

He smirked.  "No?" 

He didn't have to say the rest—that he'd done exactly that, would continue to do that, and that she'd have to suck it up and deal with it. 

Her response was to tear off her other boot and hurl that one at him too.  He pivoted just in time.  The boot bounced off the side of his thigh.  Without a word, he scooped up both boots, turned and hurled them out the door.  He slammed the door shut, bolting it behind him.

"Now that you're defenseless..." he began.  He spoke too soon.  She snatched up his wash bucket, lugging it to waist level.  He could see that she had lousy upper body strength; her veins ridged up with the effort and her mouth opened in a rectangle, teeth grinding with the strain.  He chuckled.  She roared. 

She tried to maintain the weight of the bucket with one quivering hand, while awkwardly grabbing for the bottom of the container with the other.  He stood where he was, challenging her to douse him if she could.  With one heave, she only managed to tip the bucket, sending a hearty splash over the edge that soaked her feet.  She lost her grip as the whole thing swung backward, the filthy water sloshing down the front of her.

"Okay," he laughed again, "Now that you're defenseless..."

She heaved the empty bucket toward him, bu
t
shor
b
buckets were heavy and this one was far too heavy for her.  The container dropped straight to the floor and rolled back, smashing her toe.  She shrieked and planted both hands on the container, pushing it with a furious effort.  It rolled lazily across the floor toward him.  Diem stopped it with his boot.  He leaned down and set the bucket upright beside him. 

"Now..." he began again, but she wasn't finished.  With another shriek, she jumped toward the shelf beside the counter, reaching up for his dishes.  Diem threw his hands up to stop what he knew was coming .  "No, no
—not the dishes!"

It was too late.  She wasn't listening to a word.  Instead, she flicked her wrist with her throw, sending the rounded plates spinning through the air.  He ducked and dodged, crossing the floor toward her, as the plates shattered on the wall behind him.  She narrowed her eyes on him as he neared and this time, her aim was precise.  The dish caught his thigh, right above the knee cap.  He folded over with the hit, as his nerves shot arrows of pain up his leg.

"Stop!" he roared.  He lifted his head, brow low, mouth set in a hard line.  She took one look at him and he was shocked to see her press herself into the corner.  Especially since it had been his expression and not his words that shut her down.

She was shorter without her boots on, and somehow, vulnerable.  He decided not to tweak her with that conversation opener.  It softened his own expression and when he spoke, his tone was velvet.  

"Why are you acting like this?" he said.  "Is it because I locked you in?"

"Yes, it's because you locked me in!" she hissed.  She reminded him of a newly hatched hen, quivering against the wall, her fury similar to hens spitting harmless puffs of smoke. 

"It was for your own protection," he said. 

"Protection against what?"

She really had no idea.  The thought bristled him, that she was still viewing him as the enemy. 

"What do you think is out there?" he asked.  "I've only heard stories of what the world was like in your time, but at least I have an idea.  You don't have a clue.  Tell me, Maeve, what world do you think is out there now?"

She thought a moment and then, "It doesn't matter.  It's not your business if I want to see it."

It was funny to him that not long ago, he'd been asking Wind to butt out of his business and here was this mysterious woman from the archaic Earth, asking the same of him.  He tried to justify his involvement in Maeve's business, reasoning that he couldn't let her wander off and become prey to his dragons, or let her fall into the lake and be chewed up by the ratfish, or, the worst of all the possibilities, wander through the forest to be found by a Houseman
—

The idea of it speared him at his core and then twisted his insides like shreds of
gorne, caught in fork tines.  He tried to erase the image, but his brain did an incomplete job, only putting different faces on the thought, all of them occupants of his House and not one of them worthy of having her.  That last thought set him on tumble.  He shouldn't care who was worthy or not.  He had too much to care about already and didn't need to add her to it.

But he did.

Damn it.

He gave her as wide a berth as he could, considering the size of the shack, as he retrieved his chair.  He set it near the door, just in case she decided to bolt
—by Ahanas, he really needed to stop caring if she did—and took a seat.

"Let me tell you what's out there," he said.  "First, there are my dragons.  They would kill you if I didn't signal otherwise..."

"They already tried that, because you obviously had them keep me in here," she grumbled.  He ignored it.

"You could fall into a whole lake of ratfish..."

"Like I wouldn't see a lake coming?"

"There are House
men..."

"You think I can't handle a man?" she shot back.  He considered the single dish left on the shelf beside her, but answered her truthfully anyway.

"No.  Not these men," he said.  "My Housemen are strong.  You couldn't even lift my bucket.  The weakest Houseman can subdue a woman in less than a second."

"Maybe one of your women," she chuffed. 

His decision and his movement came at light speed.  He launched himself at her, catching her up in his arms.  She was helpless as he stretched himself around her.  She tried to bite him, but he wrestled her down to the floor.  Beneath him, her own erratic breathing pounded her nipples against his chest.  He held her still, his face to hers, holding his crushing weight off her only enough to keep from smothering her, but not enough to allow her escape.

"You see," he said, his own respiration smooth and relaxed, "it's the truth.  And tonight especially, there is more danger outside for you.  There is a House
Party.  Since neither my Housemen, nor those of Breed House would recognize you, your objections would mean less than nothing.  Some men would not care if you wanted to mate them or not.  Some would not care if you screamed or spit or bit them.  Their goal is not your enjoyment; the object is to plant you with generation.  Aside from enjoying a mating, it is a great honor for a man to plant a child, and there has even been talk among the overseers of rewarding the men for number of generation they can lay claim to."

"What the fuck kind of animals..." Maeve began, but Diem clamped his hand over her mouth.

"Maeve," he said, his voice deep and stern and tender all at once.  He knew his tone, as well as the use of her name, startled her to silence.  "Do not use the archaic.  Do. not.  If a Plutian overhears it, you not only jeopardize yourself, but every other human, in every other House.  Do you understand me?"

He was shocked that she didn't bite him.  Everything was a fight with this woman, but for the first time, she nodded and when he released his hand, she didn't shriek the curses at him anyway.  But her venom still spilled over in her words.

"So it's cool now to go around raping women?" She glared at him.  "What is wrong with you?  What happened to polite society?  What's happened to women's rights?"

He groaned at being grouped into the category of men he worked to restrain.  At the same time, being Rha meant encouraging the survival and thriving of the race.  It was a horrible balance to try to maintain.  "Creating generation is not seen that way any longer.  There are reasons..."

"You're giving rape an excuse?  Typical of a man.  I wonder if you'd excuse it if your tailpipe was getting hammered?"

He groaned again.  "You don't understand.  Our race consists of little more than a thousand people.  Rape is not encouraged, but repopulation is..."

"BUT?" she roared.  "It's an excuse!  And what good is repopulating the race if another planet owns it?  Why put more people through this?  Why not just die out?  That would screw over Pluto!"

He didn't know the term, but he liked it.  He liked the fight in her.  She was still glaring, but Diem took another deep breath, his body expanding against hers, pushing against her softness.  Patience.  He'd known she would take patience.  More than he was sure he had at this point. 

It'd been a long time since he'd even thought about being with a woman—he'd made his responsibilities his single, miserable love affair—but his body was thinking of it all on its own.  It sprang to life, prodding between her thighs.  He tightened his own legs around the outside of hers to prevent her from raising up a knee and smashing his manhood up into his lungs.

"Are you getting a hard on?"  Her glare had ratcheted up to full blast, but she stayed perfectly still.  A hard on.  Well, that described it perfectly.

"We refer to it as a flex." 

"Whatever it's called, get it off my thigh."

"Work with it," he said.  "I'm not going anywhere."

"Do you mean, deal with it?"

"I mean:  too bad, I'm not getting off.  Not until you stop breaking up my shack and sparking at me."

She couldn't glare any harder than she was, he was sure of it, but he was almost disappointed when the flames in her eyes died down.  Her voice was collected as she said, "Fine.  I'll stop.  Now get off."

He stood, offering a hand to pull her up, which was promptly refused.

"So why the big fight when I came in?  I thought we had a work around," he said.

She paced around the edge of the room like a trapped hampig.  Diem went back to his chair by the door.  He grinned as it occurred to him. 

"Ah...you don't really trust us, do you?" he said.  "That's it, isn't it?  You think the archaic Earth is still out there and we are keeping you from it?"

"Yup," she said.  He rested his chin on his thumb, his knuckle rubbing his upper lip.

"Hmm, well I can prove that's not the case.  Come with me."

"Where?" she asked as he rose from the chair. 

"To see.  That's what you want isn't it?"

"Yes," she said, and he was impressed with how sure she sounded of herself.