Chapter 1

MARGARET

"There isn't a choice," Nyanna says, shaking her head. "I hate to put it this bluntly, but we are screwed."

No one in the room speaks up. I don't either because what am I going to say? She summed it up in pretty much the same words I would use. Screwed is accurate but I may have said it with a bit more color since none of the kids are here.

The refrigerator was broken and we didn't have the parts to fix it. No refrigerator and we were in trouble. We were down to the last of the dried rations that had survived the crashing of the ship to this planet, or, in other words, not much. The alien Zmaj had been a blessing in more ways than one. They had begun hunting meat and other food sources for us, which is great, but what they brought needed to be kept cool or it would spoil. And there are too many of us to feed without keeping the meat safe for longer periods.

Nyanna looks at each of us in turn and every person in casts their eyes down and away. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. I've had a good life. More than I could ever have asked for, if I'm being honest. If I'm going to die, it might as well be at least trying to do something good. Something that will help make sure my children, grandchildren, and newly born great-grandchild survive.

"I'll go," I say, raising my hand as I open my eyes and meet Nyanna's steady gaze with one of my own.

The surprise on her face is so clear it might as well be a searchlight illuminating a night sky. Her mouth parts into an o shape as her eyebrows raise almost to her hairline.

"Marge you don't?—"

"No," I cut her off. "I do. I'll go."

The others who had gathered in my kitchen shuffled their feet uncomfortable but not disagreeing with my offer. They may want to speak up, or at least feel like they should anyway, but no one does. I get it. It feels wrong to send the old lady out into the desert on what is quite likely a suicide mission, but they don't have my viewpoint on it.

They don't know me that well or know what a good life I've had. That I've known love. I've raised my family and by the grace of all the Gods that ever were most of them survived the crash to this forsaken planet.

And, everyone gathered here still has so much life ahead of them. Some of them haven't even found love. They don't yet know the touch of a lover's caress, or the joy that can be found in sharing a morning cup with your mate.

I've had all that and more. My husband died years ago and sure I've been lonely and alone since, but I've never been unhappy. I loved and that part of my life ended when I lost him, but I've found every bit as much joy in what my life became after. Spending time with my children, my grandkids, and my first great-grandchild.

Beautiful.

The Zmaj's word echoes in my head like a clarion call. Ridiculous thought. In truth I really didn't think I was capable of feeling what I had in that moment when he looked at me. That tight, needy desire that flooded your body when pure lust and primal instinct soared, but I now know how wrong I was about that having gone away. It apparently only needed the right trigger, which he was.

It's a silly thought though. A fantasy, which there is no harm in indulging, as long as I don't lose touch with reality. I'm way too old for him and he deserves better than that. What kind of life could I offer him? I don't know how many more years I have left. Any man committing himself to me would only be for whatever that time is and that's not fair to him.

"Marge, seriously, this is going to be really dangerous," Nyanna says. "I appreciate the offer, truly, but I don't think?—"

"That I'm able enough? You think the old woman hasn't got it in her anymore?" I ask, grinning. "Here, let me do a jig for you." I do my best imitation of an ancient Irish folk dance then end with a semi-graceful pirouette. "See? The old gal still has it."

I smile at her and the others who stare wide-eyed in either disbelief or appreciation, but I choose to believe its appreciation. Probably it's the opposite, but the greatest wisdom age has brought me is to not be so concerned with what other people think.

"It's not that," Nyanna says. "Or not totally."

She's flustered, which is very unusual for Nyanna who is always in control. I grin with satisfaction.

"Captain," I say, stepping forward. "I get it. It's dangerous. We all know the odds."

"The odds are not…"

"I take her," a deep, thrumming bass voice echoes from the back of the room.

I hate the way it makes my heart speed up. What is wrong with me? I'm too old for this kind of nonsense. It's ridiculous, but when he pushes his way through my mouth turns dry and I can't take my eyes off of him. The best or maybe the worst part is he can't seem to take his eyes off of me.

He has the most amazing eyes. The color of them is one no human has ever had in the long history of humans. Not naturally anyway. His are a shade of violet but with these starbursts in them that are incredible. Also his pupils are slits, because he is, after all, an alien.

He steps forward and comes to a stop at my side, staring down from his much greater height. I, for my part, feel about as frumpy as I ever have in my life. It couldn't be any worse if he'd come upon me in my bathrobe with my hair in curlers. Both of which are a luxury that was lost when the ship crashed. I do miss curlers and bathrobes.

I clear my throat and force my eyes up. That's right girl, don't keep staring at that v diving into his loosely tied pants. Up. A little more, there you go. Back to those eyes. Which are enough. I mean, damn, those eyes are incredible. Bright and intelligent and piercing and I'm running out of adjectives plus I become acutely aware that everyone else is staring at me and him.

"Ah-hem," Nyanna clears her throat. "Uh, Mohlad?" she looks over to her Zmaj whose name escapes me. He nods with a soft smile and she continues. "Mohlad. I don't think this is a good idea."

"It is," Mohlad says.

No argument, not really even a disagreement. He's making a statement, pure and simple and he never once takes his eyes off of me. He has what I would call an easy grin. It's not wry or untrue, it's natural and confident. He stands in this slightly odd way where he's slightly leaning back at his waist. It makes his washboard abs really stand out and oh my gods above that v… but nope eyes on his. Keep them there.

Nyanna's Zmaj says something in their tongue. I've not bothered to learn any of it. Well, not bothered, like I've had time. Running the kitchen, keeping it clean, making sure there is food for all the survivors is more than a bit time consuming.

"No matter who goes," Julia says, "we need to move. How long will the food supplies last without refrigeration?"

"Four, maybe five days," I say. "All the meat that has been gathered will spoil by then."

"It would be smarter for Jean to go," Shana says. "She's already been there and knows the way."

"I know the way," Mohlad says.

My stomach is doing odd flips all while butterflies flutter inside of it. My eyes are so dry they are burning but I can't force myself to blink. I don't want to. I want to keep looking at him. He's beautiful. Like a statue. When I was young I studied for a while an artist track. I had been enthralled with sculptures that we had studied and there was one by an ancient Earth artist named Michelangelo called David.

The statue was carved from marble and it reminds me of Mohlad. The way he stands. The hard lines of his muscles, his jaw, and even his horns. Yeah, horns. What am I thinking? He can't be interested in me.

But those eyes… the way he looks at me. I know that look. I've seen it before, but knowing and certainty are not the same thing. Besides, I'm way too old for him. He's young, probably in his twenties, or whatever the Zmaj equivalent of that is. Better to set aside silly notions.

"He go," Nyanna's Zmaj says.

Why can't I remember his name? I know it, I'm too distracted by Mohlad's swirling purple eyes. I swear it's as if he's mesmerizing me.

Nyanna looks at her mate with a quizzical glance. Everyone else is watching and the entire situation is becoming entirely too uncomfortable, for me and for them. I need to bring this to an end because I can't deal with two uncomfortable things at once.

"Nyanna,' I say, forcing myself to quit staring into his eyes and turning all my attention on to her. "It's okay." I move in close and speak low so only she can hear the rest of my words. "I understand your concerns. I do, but listen. I'm old. I've lived a very good life and I'm very happy with where I am. If I can do this, please let me. I'd rather put myself at risk for all of you, than have someone else do it."

Her eyes glisten with unshed tears as her emotions storm across her face like soldiers going over the ramparts. Her mouth twists unsure if she's trying to frown, smile, or laugh, or burst out in hard tears.

"But Marge…" she says, choking on my name.

I squeeze her arm and smile.

"I know," I say.

There are no more words needed. We both understand. I'm the one person Nyanna was ever able to be herself with after the crash. She had spent many nights in my quarters and we'd shed a lot of tears together. She loved me and I loved her as if she was one of my own. Which, in a way, she is. Throwing all propriety and caution to the wind she throws her arms around my neck and pulls me into a tight hug.

"You come back," she says in my ear. "You hear me. Come back."

"I'll do my best," I say, my own voice as tight as hers.

"We will," Mohlad says.

He's behind me and I'm acutely aware of his gaze. It warms my skin, makes my heart speed up, and a flush creep across, while warming all the parts of me that I'd long thought dormant.