Ieshans are good at waiting. I was raised to be patient, and made for it, too; being born into a house of priests does not lend itself to irrational sins like an intolerance to biding one’s time. So it doesn’t bother me, that he takes his time wandering over, through the dim-dark and the quiet and the whistling of leaves. It doesn’t bother me that I am watching him for so many long minutes before he really appears.
I stretch out, like a cat. There is a hissing in my ear; the snakes are waking up from their midday nap, stirring against my cheek, my neck, blinking their hard, sleepy eyes open wide as the stranger approaches. Watching. Letting out a little whistle. I don’t mind the noise. It’s a little better than the stupid bustle of the library. It is much, much better than sitting in silence, especially the kind that makes me start thinking.
He is floating toward me. Nimble-footed, I note, maybe because he is so small. Or maybe it’s because he has wings. I have always been indifferent to pegasi: I don’t find it charming, the overwhelming arrogance that comes with belonging above the earth, nor am I enamored, as some land- or sea-dwellers are, with the idea of flying.
There is plenty to conquer, here on the ground, without adding another, even messier variable. Besides, no one in my family has wings. Which means they can’t be all that great.
I close the novel. Toss it aside. It lands with a soft thump on a pile of blankets, cover-down. He has stopped in front of me, as expected, but what I did not expect is that he is literally bristling—crackling with a thin bright arc of electricity; his shoulders are hunched, his blue-gray eyes, when they meet mine, hard as black ice. They burn.
Though no more than his voice, when he asks, what?
I blink. There is no lying about it—I am caught off-guard. But not startled so much as bemused. Usually I am irresistible; usually I am adored at first sight, snakes, amber eyes and all. Usually people find me tempting.
Oh, but perhaps this is why you are being so abrasive. I wouldn’t be surprised—you are so interested, so shamefully, instantly seduced, that it is hard to react with any semblance of normalcy.
I smile, slow and lazy. “Nothing.” I only say it because I know it will infuriate him. But it feels good in my mouth, anyway, savory, luxurious, if only because there is a part of me—wretchedly satisfied, in the way a peasant having gotten away with a stolen loaf of bread—at the thought of keeping his attention, positive or otherwise.
“Why?” I tilt my head at him. Innocent. I debate adding something else—what were you waiting for? why do you ask?—but I don’t. Because I know he will still ask.
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