Page 92 of Folds
As the board gives way, I hear what sounds like a weak grunt… like it came from an injured animal.
My adrenaline surges for an entirely different reason. What if something needs my help?
I push the now-loose plank to the side, grab my phone, and turn on the flashlight.
At first, I don’t see anything—just dirt, dust, and cobwebs shifting in the beam. But when the noise comes again, I catch it: a glinting flash of green scales. Something big and smooth flexes and slithers beneath the cabin floor.
It’s too large to be a snake, at least any kind that I can think of would be native to this part of the world.
My suspicions are confirmed when the owner of those scales drifts past my peephole into the crawlspace. As if a snake’s tail has been spliced with a verdant, scale-covered human torso, what’s taken up residence under my new house finally reveals himself.
The naga shifts his shoulders, wiggling in obvious discomfort, until his face comes into view. His eyes are squeezed shut, his expression tight with pain as he moves.
Despite that, he’s fucking stunning. The monster-man looks like he was carved—patiently, lovingly—from a solid block of emerald.
I've never seen a naga myself. They're much rarer than your run-of-the-mill minotaur or mothman. In fact, I'm pretty sure that most take up residence in temples. They seem to have something of a cult following.
Seeing a naga under my cabin almost feels like seeing a teacher outside of school—it just feels wrong.
“Um… are you okay?” I manage to sputter out, glad that I don't have a fear of snakes.
He snaps open his amber eyes, as if realizing for the first time that someone’s watching him. Which is strange, because I’m fairly certain nagas are known for their heightened senses.
“No,” he gets out, barely above a whisper, his forked tongue lapping at the single word. The green god’s hand shakes at his side as he tries to reach up toward me—but doesn’t get anywhere close.
“Oh—um, okay.” I take a deep breath and bite my bottom lip. “How can I help you?”
He blinks rapidly, like he’s shocked I would even offer, before sticking to those one-word answers.
“Cold.”
Right. Iwouldn’texpect something cold-blooded in this unseasonably cool, wet environment. So even though I don’t know what he’s doing here—or how he decided hiding under my floorboards was a good idea—I start piecing together a plan. I’m not a dick. I can’t just let someone suffer.
“Do you think you could get out from under there? I just started a fire, and I’ve got some tea going. You’ll be a lot warmer up here.”
He doesn't answer me right away, but instead just stares at me with those amber eyes. His brow is furrowed, like he's trying to decide if I'm a hallucination or just stupid.
Which, sure, that's fair, I guess.
"I won't…" His voice is sandpaper rough, scraping from somewhere deep inside his muscular chest. "Hurt."
"Yeah, that is very much what I prefer," I huff out, my nerves strung tight.
Neither of us moves, and the only thing that snaps me back to reality is the pitter patter of the soft drops of cool rain leaking through my roof.
When I move to wipe the water off the back of my neck, he shifts.
Slowly at first, the green coils of his body slide against the dirt of the crawlspace. He winces as he moves, breath hitching.
"Hey, stop if it hurts," I order, pushing my face closer into the gap in the floorboards. "You don't have anything to prove."
His gaze flicks to mine. And every dagger he shoots with his eyes tells me everything I need to know. He's stubborn and proud.
Great, that always makes for an easy patient.
"I can manage," he says through gritted teeth.
"Sure…" I say under my breath, not believing him for a second.
