The Rebellious Mate

7(i) The Date

Asena woke up to a racket. Someone was trying to break down the door, and they succeeded. Startled, she forgot she'd curled under the bed frame and sat up, only to bang her head on the slats under her bed.

The matron's round face peered at her before she grabbed Asena's ankle and pulled her out. In a mix of Romanian and English, the female fussed over the bump on her forehead.

After the lady ran off, Asena locked herself in the bathroom. She avoided everyone for an hour or so after she got up. She set her alarm earlier to avoid Papa. The silence of the twilight hour when everything except the early birds slept was bliss. She wandered about their kitchen and the woods, savoring those moments of solitude.

She brushed her teeth and had a shower before she left the sanctuary of the washroom. The distraught matron hurried to press an ice pack on the swelling and wailed about her 'ruining' her face.

Zane arrived with a doctor who applied an anti-inflammatory spray. The liquid chilled her skin. Yet again she came across the boar logo and the brand—Ursa-Lycos.

The matron instructed her to stay in her quarters until the afternoon. Then Zane bundled her in the Rolls Royce. Within, a black glass partition hid the driver.

"Where are we going?" she asked.

"To the airport to catch a flight to Paris."

"What?" she yelped. But then it occurred to her: why would an aristocrat come to her? The size of their egos rivaled the Everest.

Zane told her they were going to the Napoleon Gardens. He explained the humans had a location and a general with the same names. But they were unaware of the gory Shifter. Mentioning he was taboo in the Americas.

"That's a terrible venue," she grumbled. Again, she'd underestimated what today would bring. "Tea at a site of genocide? That's romantic."

In the medieval ages, the perdatorials—dragons, lycans, bearoids, and big felines—had terrorized herbvoid shifters. They proclaimed the latter lesser beings. The antelodians—moose, elk, and reindeer—had mounted a resistance. The clash, termed 'the Steppes Massacre', ended in a bloodbath. The Predators, led by Napoleon Rivs, won. The General showed the defeated weaker shifters no mercy. He also collected exotic flora with the same obsessive passion, until his assassination. After retiring, he'd created the largest glasshouse at the time.

Yet the mass defection and migration of herbvoid to the Americas enraged the Emperor. Why wouldn't they? In the New World, every shifter was equal and had the same rights. It also offered a greater degree of liberty within a societal structure. And they honored the non-occides directive.

Worried, Zane asked, "How do you—"

"Word of mouth. We," she pointed at him and then herself, "grew up with the grass eaters, no? They have their lore. You never befriended one?"

'Good save! Now shut up, nerd,' Moggie huffed.

Asena stared out of the window.

Europa was the wild, wild west. At home, the laws were ruthless. If one committed premeditated shiftercide, they forfeited their life. Duels were illegal, and challenges sanctioned and supervised. Legal help was available free of cost. The maxim of 'an eye for an eye' was literal. Maim another, suffer the same fate. There was no tolerance for violence. The breakdown of law and order resulted in individuals and the pack paying hefty remuneration.

"We can't change the past. Amends were made—" Zane said, patting her arm.

She shouldn't have said anything. Lying didn't come naturally to her, and she struggled to keep track of the web of fiction she'd woven. She hailed from an isolated tribe of the Savannas and shouldn't know so much about Europa's history.