Slave by Cheryl Brooks Page B

much like laughing just then, anyway. I suppose it could have been said that I was sort of like a pirate. Some of my customers might be inclined to refer to me as such, though I made it a rule never to be dishonest with anyone unless they tried to swindle me first. After that, I figured they were fair game. However, since I usually paid for things rather than stole them, I was more of a good pirate than a bad one—if there truly was such a thing as a good pirate. I wasn’t sure about that, but the ship had already had the
skull and crossbones painted on it when I bought it, hence the name. Mom had thought it was pretty funny, anyway. My, how she would laugh when I came home with Ranata! Of course, she’d probably cry her eyes out first— then she would laugh.
    “I am Carkdacund Tshevnoe,” he replied, taking my hand in a firm, warm grasp. He was recovering quickly, it seemed. “But you may continue to call me Cat.”
    “Thanks,” I said, grateful for not having to wrap my tongue around a handle like that every time I spoke to him! “What the hell do your friends call you for short?”
    “I have no friends,” he stated simply. His voice held no expression of regret. It was merely a statement of the truth.
    “Sorry,” I muttered ruefully. “Should have thought about that before I opened my damned mouth.” I heaved a sigh and added: “My friends call me Jack, but you can call me anything you like.”
    “Jacinth is a very beautiful name,” he observed, and, you know, it really did sound beautiful the way he said it—almost like it had more letters in it or something.
    “Yeah, I know,” I grumbled. “Too bad it doesn’t suit me. I think I look more like a Jack, myself.”
    “I disagree,” he said. “To me, you look like a Jacinth.
    I will call you that.”
    Which was about the nicest thing anyone had said to me for quite some time—perhaps ever. I did my best not to let it show, though. “Sure,” I said with a nonchalant wave of my hand. “Whatever.”
    Standing as close to him as I was now, and without the benefit of a respirator, my nose told me that a bit of
washing up might be in order. I just hoped I didn’t have to do that for him, too, but was surprised when just the idea of bathing him gave me a little twinge of…well, I don’t know exactly what you’d call it, but suffice it to say that it revised my opinion of whether or not I would refuse to do it should it ever become necessary.
    Clearing my throat and backing out of range of whatever it was about him that was making me not want to move away, I said briskly, “Okay, then, Cat, why don’t you go get cleaned up a little and I’ll fix you something to eat. What would you like?”
    He looked up at me as though I’d completely taken leave of my senses. “I was a slave up until a short time ago,” he reminded me, “and I have not eaten in two days.
    I will eat anything you give me.”
    “Silly me!” I commented dryly. “Well, it looks like you’ll be an easy keeper, at least. And you don’t seem to like wearing clothes much, so I won’t be having to buy you a very extensive wardrobe, either.” I was thinking of something along the lines of maybe, say, a loincloth and a vest at the very least, but, actually, I think it would have taken an awful lot more than that to camouflage his appeal.
    “I have been in armor or restraints for most of my life,” he said. “I think I would like to feel free to wear nothing for a while, if you do not object.”
    “No,” I lied. “It won’t bother me a bit. Just let me know if you get too cold.”
    He nodded and went to take a shower. I would have to remember to put some of the Derivian ointment on the sores on his back when he was clean and dry. And
while he was gone, I thought perhaps I should turn down the temperature on the environmental controls.
    Maybe if he got a bit chilly, he’d at least put on a tunic—a really long tunic.
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