Unknotted

Drinks and Doors

Georgie

The vertigo caused by my sudden change in height after downing a disguising potion had finally worn off. The floor always seemed far away and my balance off when I pretended to be a troll. The subtle sway of the cruise ship didn’t help either.

With a tray filled with drinks balanced on my hand, I steered into the dining hall. Long tables formed a boxy U shape. Though not all the territory representatives had arrived, the room was already buzzing with silent suspense. Peth was offering drinks to an ultra from Namen, the territory to the north.

Admon Kosevan had a hard, yet handsome face, if a little damaged from his journey up the dominance pyramid. He and his partner, who had stayed behind to protect the territory, were the newest ultras on Cenzia. Admon accepted a drink from Peth with barely a glance in her direction and whispered to the young, beautiful woman perched in his lap. The woman flushed and lowered her eyes. Even from across the room, I could sense her discomfort. I ground my teeth. Another dominant forcing another submissive to do as he wished.

Six more women, done up like beautiful porcelain dolls, lined the wall behind Admon. One woman for each day of the week Admon had boasted upon arrival. Harems weren’t a new concept on Cenzia, so his boastful proclamation wasn’t all that shocking.

Being part of a harem… It wasn’t for everyone. Certainly not for me. I had seen too much jealousy, backbiting, and heartbreak—in even successful ones—to choose that for myself. But harem life didn’t have to be entirely awful. Unless the dominant of that harem happened to be like Admon.

His women were sad creatures with tightly rounded shoulders and eyes that never left the ground. At first glance, they could be mistaken as submissives, but they weren’t though. Not exactly. Being a submissive didn’t mean having to be miserable. In fact, naturally submissive hybrids tended to be the most cheerful and relaxed of our kind—the lucky toads. These women were broken, reduced to meager shells. Absent of spirit.

If there was some way I could save them, put the spirit back into their shells, I would. But I was one hybrid. One hybrid who fought everyday against cruelties that only multiplied. My efforts were never enough. Thinking like that tended to turn me into a moody moose though. And, as momma always said, a moody moose never accomplished anything, so I avoided dwelling on what I couldn’t fix.

On the opposite side of the room, only one ultra had come from Zalico. Ultra Reynoka Muclaw’s secret and complicated pregnancy was the likely excuse for her absence. Best not to broadcast one’s vulnerability, especially during the Expansion War.

Ultra Steya Shreid sat with some of her own mates flocking around her like dogs begging to be the next to receive a scratch behind the ear. Her golden hair was streaked with silver and worn lose over the shoulders of her brown leather armor. A Duster’s mole-shaped form was stamped on the breastplate. Her dark stare had always been intense, her dominance brimming toward the surface.

Admon, by simply breathing the same air, had pushed her dominance closer to the edge than usual. To be fair, he irritated my dominance too. For reasons like this, the all-trolls catering staff had wisely collected weapons upon boarding. But who needed a sword or a gun or a whip when Steya’s beasts form had a bite force of over a thousand pounds per square inch and Admon’s the body of a battering ram?

As much respect as I had for Steya, the way she condemned Admon for his harem was a tad hypocritical. I had lost count of how many mates she had—at least twenty—and each one she had made roll over in submission.

I had witnessed a few of these Zalican “weddings.” Forget flowers, pretty clothing, and peaceful music. They were about blood, torn flesh, and cries of pain—usually with the man doing the bleeding and crying. Nothing said love and loyalty like the groom having his bones crushed in the bride’s jaws, right?

After the initial beatdown, Steya used more seductive ways to keep her mates happy to be under her authority. Was it manipulation? Absolutely. But her men appeared perfectly content to be managed most of the time. They probably wouldn’t thank me if I tried to liberate them.

In my troll disguise, I offered Steya a drink. “Thirsty, Ultra?”

She accepted the glass, meeting my eyes. After an awkwardly long stare and a deep inhale, she smiled as if in on some inside joke I had missed.

“I should have expected,” she said carefully, “that a meeting of this importance would draw the attention of the most interesting people. Your perfume is rather potent. Might need another spritz or two though.”

I returned her smile. “Noted. If there’s anything else I can help you with, Ultra, don’t hesitate to ask.”

“Same for you,” she said around her glass.

I held out a drink to a mate. “What about you? Thirsty?”

The man backed away as if I was offering poison. I supposed I could be as I hadn’t personally mixed the drinks. Really though, the men were extremely uncomfortable having a woman, even a female troll, serving them. That sort of service wasn’t done in Zalico.

“Don’t be shy, honey.” Smiling encouragingly, I practically shoved the glass into his hand and then more drinks at the hands of the other mates. “One could almost believe they’ve never been served before.”

“Trust me, I service my men frequently.” Steya trailed her fingers down the face of the closest mate, the rest eyeing the touch with jealousy.

Fighting back a gag—yep, I had walked into that innuendo—I slipped out a side door and retreated to the kitchen. After witnessing the less than tasteful realities of hybrid culture, how could Peth not understand why I rejected it? Women treated like objects in the north, men treated as second class in the south, and a tenuous hold on equality squashed between them in Keadan, made it impossible to want to settle anywhere in Cenzia.

Sure, the harem scheme was set up to encourage population growth, aka magic fortifying, and there were benefits to large families. Like safety and protection and, more importantly, a better variety of food at potlucks. But no family I had found felt right. Unless I counted the Ebbing Society as family.

In the kitchen, trolls were in full preparation mode, assembling plates heavy with meat and topped with fancy garnishes. Peth was scrubbing at her arms and retching dramatically by the sink. “That Admon is as rotten as they come.”

I set the empty tray down on the counter. “I thought you liked the strong dominating types.”

“Not that dominating.”

“How is he any different from the man who stole your book last night.”

“First”—Peth held up a finger—“you gave it to him. Second, there was magic between you two. I’m sure once you—”

I groaned. “If you say ’once I get to know him, I’ll find he’s a different person’ I’ll beat you with this tray.”

She held up her hands in a half-hearted surrender. “Fine. Fine. But—”

I pressed a finger over her rosy lips. “No buts. There’s no excuse for what he did. None. Let’s just hope the Core doesn’t decide to punish me more by sending him my way again.”

“If he does appear, it’ll be proof that it’s fate, and—”

Jik’s voice hissed through my earpiece. “Keadan sent representatives instead of their ultras. When was the last time those two left their den?”

The catering manager burst into the kitchen, clapping his hands. The troll was short, about six feet tall, with a wide girth. His tusks were trimmed short, so they only peeked over his lower lip. “You two! The new girls! I need you ready to welcome the new arrivals. Lunch in twenty.”

(Chapter concludes in part 2)