“Back at the lab, Ma’am,” he says, chest so puffed with pride that Tacoma spares a brief second to wonder if he’ll soon burst, leaving Air Force blue bits of himself scattered about the house. He stifles a chuckle in deference to the man’s obvious sincerity, though his eyes share a wicked grin with Kirsten, who’s successfully hiding her own mirth. “Will you…uh…will you be returning with me, Ma’am? To the lab, I mean. Corvallis and I really could use your expertise. Ma’am.”
“I’d like to, Lieutenant,” Kirsten remarks, carefully slipping the square back into the baggie and zipping it closed, “and I will, but right now, I have to….”
“…get yourself to the lab with this young gentleman,” Wanblee Wapka states, stepping through the door. Asi, who he’s been trying to entertain, pushes past him and, yodeling with joy at finally seeing his Mistress, all but leaps into Kirsten’s arms as he covers her face with wet, sloppy dog kisses. “Dakota should be awakening soon. I’ll keep an eye on her while you tend to your own needs.”
“But—.”
“Go. Please. She will be fine, and it will do you good to get out for awhile.”
Kirsten still looks unconvinced. Oh, she believes that Wanblee Wapka speaks the truth; he knows about these things much better than she does, after all. But there is a churning, gnawing feeling inside of her which makes her wonder if, rather than Dakota being okay without her, she will be okay without Dakota.
“Go,” Wanblee Wapka repeats, smiling. “You don’t have to stay long.”
Finally, reluctantly, she nods and, with a final pat to her lovelorn canine, slowly rises and follows the young Lieutenant from the house.
When she leaves, Tacoma also rises from his place on the couch. “If it’s alright with you, Ate, I think I’ll head back to the power plant. Bernstein and Jove are just about to do the first test with the windfans we’ve installed. I’d like to be there if anything goes wrong.”
Wanblee Wapka nods.
“She will be alright, right?” Tacoma asks, eyeing his father closely.
“She’ll be fine, chinkshi. But you know that already. You’ve always been closer than cekpapi.”
“I do know,” Tacoma admits. “But it’s always nice to have it confirmed.” He smiles. “Thanks, Ate. I’ll be back soon.”
“Be off with you then,” he orders, lowering his long frame onto the couch and patting his lap. Asi obligingly puts his head in the indicated spot, and begins to groan as his ears are firmly scratched.
CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR
DAKOTA BATTLES UP from the deep levels of her sleep; her body burning, aching, bone deep. She reaches for her partner, only to come up empty-handed. Her eyes flutter open, dark with arousal. “Kirsten? Canteskue?”
Only silence answers her call, and she scrambles up to a sitting position, flinging the heavy covers off of her burning flesh, then groans as her head all but explodes from the abrupt change in position. Her hands fly up to cradle her skull. The mother of all headaches seems to have taken up residence in her brain and she grits her teeth against the urge to cry out in pain. “Gods,” she grits out, trapped between the splitting fire in her head and the throbbing need in her body. “What’s happening to me?”
Slamming her eyes shut, she takes in several deep, slightly labored, breaths, trying to restore some semblance of control. The deep breaths are a mistake. Kirsten’s essence, the commingled essence of their passion, lies heavy in the room, causing her whole body to clench with unmet desire. She bolts to her feet and walks on unsteady legs to the one small window. Throwing it open, she breathes deep of the springtime air. Her headache pounds, sending sharp spikes of pain down her neck, behind her eyes, and even through her teeth. She groans and clamps hard fingers to her skull once again. “Thunkashila, help me,” she prays, her words slipping into the breeze that cools the sweat on her skin. “Please.”
Slowly, gradually, with the speed of forever, a small measure of calm steals over her, allowing her to straighten somewhat, which helps lift the strain from her overstressed muscles and bones. “Thank you,” she whispers, taking in a final deep breath before turning away from the window and heading for the small bathroom to take care of other, readily apparent, needs.
The shower beckons, and she turns on the tap and quickly enters. What little calm she’s managed to attain is immediately driven from her by the first blast of icy water on her skin. Her headache trebles in strength, driving her to her knees with its force. All of the muscles in her body simultaneously cramp, and an agonized cry sprouts forth, fully bloomed, from between tightly clenched jaws.
Within seconds, the icy spray ceases its unremitting, torturous dance on her skin, and she finds herself wrapped in the strong arms of someone she knows well. Her father’s scent, warm and comforting, fills her senses, allowing her some small measure of peace, though her body is wracked with violent tremors and her head is an agony almost too much to be borne. “Ate,” she moans, feeling much like a frightened child, “what’s happening to me?”
“Shhhh,” Wanblee Wapka croons in her ear, helping her through the wracking shudders which knot her muscles until they are like rocks beneath his hands. “Shhh, chunkshi. I’m here. I’m here. Shhh.”
A steaming mug is brought to her lips. “Here. Drink this. It will help.”
Inhaling the fragrant steam, she takes a tentative sip, then a larger one as the well remembered and much loved taste of honey soothes her palate and warms her from the inside. Her muscles begin to relax and she leans gratefully into her father’s quiet strength, taking her first full breath in what seems like hours. “Thank you.”
Smiling, he draws the mug away. “If you can hold this for a moment, I’ll get a towel.”
Raising shaking hands, she grasps the mug and holds it like a lifeline. Wanblee Wapka gradually releases his grip and, when he is satisfied that she can hold herself up without assistance, grabs a large towel from its place on the bar and returns, wrapping her in it and holding her close. “Better?” he asks, watching her take another, deeper drink from the mug.
“You don’t know how much,” Dakota replies as her eyelids begin to droop. “What did you—?”
“Just something to relax you, chunkshi. Is the headache easing?”
“A little, yes.”
“Good. Do you think you can stand?”
“With some help, I think. Whatever herbs you used….” She yawns hugely. “…they’re knocking me for a loop.” She turns her head and blinks at him. “How did you know?”
“I am your father,” he replies simply, giving her all the answer she needs.
With Wanblee Wapka’s help, Dakota slowly rises to her feet and allows him to lead her back to the bedroom. As he makes for the bed, Koda shakes her head and stops. “Couch,” she says. “Better.”
He looks at her for a moment, then nods. “I’ll get your robe.”
After trading towel for robe, Koda manages to make it to the living room under her own power and, thanking the gods that there is no one but her father to bear witness to her weakness, she collapses onto the couch in a less than dignified sprawl. Her father’s herbs have eased the vice in her head and loosened the cramping tension in her muscles, but nothing, it seems, can ease the burning in her blood. This state of hyper-arousal is, in its own way, more painful than the headache at its worst, and she shifts on the couch, eyes darting wildly around, seeking out her lover in the deep shadows of the house.
“She will return to you soon,” Wanblee Wapka remarks, entering from the kitchen carrying a bowl of steaming, thickened soup. He hands it to his daughter, returning her glittering stare with one of his own. “Yes, I sent her away for a short time. I knew you were ready to awaken, and needed time to speak with you.” Smiling slightly, he gestures toward the bowl. “Eat. It will help replenish your strength.”