"Not horses."
"Not horses." Collins confirmed.
Falima fell silent again, fingers clasping and unclasping on the tabletop.
"This is really creepy for you, isn't it?"
"Not-not really. I mean, I knew-" Falima finally met Collins' gaze. "It's just that sometimes, when you look at me-" A flush crept up her neck. "You look so… so… hungry."
"Hungry?"
"Right after I change back." Falima rolled her stare to her hands, pinning one with the other. "I don't notice when I'm in switch-form. "It's like you want to… to devour me."
Now Collins understood and appreciated that Falima did not meet his eyes. I do. Just not the way you're thinking. "That's not hunger, Falima. That's…" Words failed him completely.
Now, Falima looked directly at him.
"Well…" The word came, but Collins hesitated to use it. "… lust."
Falima's expression did not change for several moments, then her brows fell in clear confusion. "What?"
This time, Collins looked away, index finger tracing a stain on the tabletop. "I'm sorry. I do know it's rude to stare at your body, but it's so… so beautiful." And I don't get to see naked women very often. He had seen Marlys, of course, but only twice. Most men of his time would consider her the prettier of the two: slight, red-haired, high-cheeked, full-lipped and well versed in enhancement with makeup. Yet, for reasons he could not yet elucidate, Falima seemed much more exciting.
Falima's mouth clamped to a severe line. "That's the second time you've called me beautiful."
"You are."
"I'm not."
It was an unwinnable argument, so Collins sidestepped it. "You are to me. Why don't you think so?"
Falima studied Collins, as if trying to read the intention behind an obvious scheme. "I'm a Random. I'm muscled like a horse, without a woman's proper softness. My colors match my switch-form better than my human form, which is manifested at night."
Collins felt a grin edging onto his lips and stopped it. "None of those things matter to me."
"They don't?" "Why would they?"
Falima had no ready answer. "Because… because-"
"Because nothing." Collins took Falima's hands and allowed the smile to glide across his face. "You know what I see?"
Falima shook her head.
"I see an athletic woman with eyes like sparkling sapphires." Collins suppressed a wince at his own triteness and wished he had paid more attention in the poetry class he had taken to fulfill his English credits. "A perfect tan. Hair midnight black and as sleek and wild as the sea. Beautiful." He pinned the smile in place. "And a creamy buckskin horse any breeder might envy."
"You do?"
"I do."
"Thank you."
Collins' grin slipped. "No need for thanks. I was simply describing what I see."
"But your words make me feel good."
"I'm glad."
They smiled at one another, and joy suffused Collins. His heart skipped, then quickened. Excitement tingled through his chest in a way he could not recall since his first crush on Betty Lou Finnegan in junior high and, prior to that, not since childhood.
Korfius yipped, breaking the mood. His legs twitched rhythmically, kicking Collins' shin.
Collins slid his feet free, rolling the dog onto his back. Korfius awakened briefly, whacked his tail on the boards, and resumed snoring.
Collins hated to even raise the issue when things were going better than he could ever have imagined, but it needed saying. "About Joetha." An image of his own grandmother came to his mind: her gray-and-white hair falling in curls to just above her shoulders, her small stout form smelling of peppers and cookies, the welcoming smile she had always given him, surrounded by the familiar wrinkles that had come to define unconditional love. She had died two years ago, of natural causes, and he missed her. He forced himself to contemplate some savage serial murderer stabbing her to death, cannibalizing the body. The picture proved too much. Horror dragged through him like a hot knife, and he dropped his head, sobbing, into his hands.
Collins did not hear Falima move, but her warm body enfolded him and her hands stroked his hair like a child's. She rocked him gently as he wept, his tears plastering the rude fabric of her dress against her solid curves. "I'm sorry," he gasped out. "I'm sorry." He wanted to say more, but grief would not allow it. I killed someone's mother, someone's grandmother. I killed her, and I callously ate her.
Collins did not know how long he cried into Falima's arms. But, when he finally regained control, his face bore the indentations of every thick fiber. She looked as if she had spilled a glass of water down her bodice, rumpled and pinch-faced.
"It's all right," she finally said.
"It's not." Collins shook his head. "It never will be."
Falima could not deny those words. Collins would have to learn to live with the guilt or go insane.
"A bad thing happened." Falima lowered herself to her haunches. "But the cause was mistake, not malice. Zylas has forgiven you, and so have I. At some point, you have to forgive yourself."
"Joetha's family-"
"-can never forgive you, of course." Falima asked cautiously, "Can you live with that?"
Collins had been about to say "-will suffer," so Falima's question caught him off-guard. He considered. "Yes," he realized to his own surprise. "I can."
Falima rose and returned to her chair. "Then it's settled. We don't need to speak of this again."
Collins liked the way she had phrased it, assuaging his shame but leaving the subject open if he ever felt the emotional need to talk about it. It was a talent he had not known she possessed, and it only made her more desirable.
Collins awakened with a start that left him disoriented to place and time, yet burdened with a decisive thought that usurped all other need for understanding. My friends: Zylas, Falima, Vernon, even Ialin, are good people, better than I could ever be. He tried to imagine himself risking his life and freedom for a murderer on death row, but the image refused to form. He would not do so, even if he knew the man innocent, let alone guilty only from ignorance. He would, of course, come forward to testify; but he would not hazard electrocution by cutting power lines to the electric chair.
Collins opened his eyes. He lay on the pallet in Vernon's cottage, straw poking him through the threadbare blanket, a bundled tunic serving as a makeshift pillow. Falima curled on the floor, snagging the four hours of sleep she required in human form. He would have preferred to give her the more comfortable sleeping place, but maintaining the illusion of his royalty took precedence until they left Korfius in Vernon's care. He saw no sign of Korfius or their host.
As Collins rolled to his right side to face the wall, he found his feet pinned in place. He jerked at the covers, dislodging the dog, who groaned and clambered from the pallet. Freed, Collins finished his intended movement and snuggled back into the straw. He could understand Zylas' assistance. The rat/man might feel responsible for leading Collins into Barakhai and, therefore, the subsequent crime. Vernon clearly made a career out of helping the needy, so perhaps he got some personal satisfaction from hiding Collins. Falima's and Ialin's motivations escaped him completely. No wonder they're hostile. Zylas must have talked them into it, perhaps against their better judgment.
Knowing he needed his sleep, Collins forced these thoughts from his mind. He could speculate about their motivations all day and never come near the truth. It was an exercise in futility that he could better solve by simply asking. Hard enough understanding people of my own world. Collins pushed his mind to less intrusive thoughts and, eventually, found sleep again.