Page 106 of Remnants: Disruption
Tempest has campuses across what remains of Nye Verden. The few in Europe that survived the Affliction War went further underground to protect their members. The ones in New America simply integrated with the corporate culture. That, my friends, is where the Apothecary came from.
Loki Odinson, an address to Tempest, 1000 A.D.
“Real ballsy of you to stare daggers at the God Queen like that.”
I startle, turning to find the source of the voice.
“I–” my throat feels suddenly very dry.
“Can I sit?” The woman says.
I nod dumbly, and she sits across from me at my diner booth, not exactly blocking my vision to Mary.
But Jesus Christ.
The woman looks like she might be a mix of a cat or something like it. It’s not even that she’s animalistic, it’s that she almost isn’t. For some reason, she looks like a fox made into a woman, rather than the other way around.
And the effect is dangerously gorgeous. Like a beautiful creature that just so happens to share features with a fox.
Fox–yeah, that’s closer.
“I’m sorry,” I stammer, my entire focus now on the woman across from me, rather than on Bloody Mary. “I’m just not–”
“Oh,” she says, and it seems like her somewhat furry cheeks pink a little.
“I’m just not used to seeing–” I can’t even find my words.
“I can change to a more human-y form,” she nods quickly, and the skin around her face begins to shift.
“No,” I say quickly, grabbing her hand off the table before I really think about it.
Her skin–fur–is insanely soft. And her hand is warmer than I expected. Though, I don’t know why I expected her to be cold, either.
A grin forms at her lips, and I can see the sharpened canines now.
“I’m just not used to were-people,” I say, slowly releasing her hand.
She has a mane of reddish-brown hair trailing down her back, and two ears poking through the nest. Final answer–a fox lady.
“I’m not,” she says, leaning forward and crossing both arms on the table.
I jump a little as a bushy tail with the same coloring as her hair rubs up against my thigh.
“Marla,” she introduces, reaching her hand across the table.
“Hiraeth,” I say, taking her hand. Her tail is still against my thigh, but I don’t hate it.
At all, actually.
There’s something comforting about it.
“Oh, we’re using fake names?” She asks, then in a deep, mocking voice, continues. “My name is Vulpane.”
I let out a shocked laugh, and her grin widens further.
“Arya,” I say, shooting a glance at Mary, but she hasn’t looked this way.
Why would she?
