The waiter reached for the coin on the plate. I smiled because he was well muscled, lean, hips attractively lit in the incipient dawn; everything my body desired. Laying my hand over his, I asked, "Any plans for after your shift?"

"I'm attached," he said demurely and walked inside.

I sniffed at my shoulder. I'd chosen bread over a bath. I could smell the road on me and shrugged, standing. It didn't help that despite looking pretty, I looked odd.

A greyhair exited the same door, wearing a reflective apron. I spotted the flame brand on his right wrist, then the seagrass idioglyph that climbed up from his right ankle, down his arm, twining around his fingers. He fueled stoves using a dangerous government-controlled miracle.

Blue eyes blinked at me as he changed course. Not too old, if not repelled by my exotic looks; I valued vigor and competence over youth. His eyes took in my feline legs, their hooves, then flicked to the ibex horns that encircled my head like a laurel wreath. He looked like he'd walk past, but stopped to regard my back. He was still handsome.

He asked, "Is there a village with humans like you? You remind me of my mother."

No. My legs, my back: entirely unique somatic changes.

Had I lived here once? I circle the table the opposite way, asking, "Where's the bath house?"

"I'll show you," he said, not taking the hint.

His cart of wrenches, hammers, and oven parts rattled as I asked, "How young—?"

"94." Longevity from working miracles his entire life? I felt eyes on my back. I lacked a horse tail to go with the hooves, so I couldn't run fast. It wasn't what held his attention.

I pointed as we walked east. In this hot region, most buildings were adobe domes with ramadas. The other dozen-floor chimney-like buildings were where the day angels, flying and hauling items through the sky, lived. Scattered shade trees didn't hide the horizon. I smelled the iron smell of a sweaty metalworker as he passed, following my finger.

He didn't see as a miraculous glow surrounded me, before the horizon brightened.

I felt the heat as I looked away, but it wouldn't go above -3º blood temperature, like everywhere I traveled. "The baths?"

"Go left. It's shift-end and—"

"I'll treat." Unbalance, then distract. "Any news in town?"

"We're getting a railroad spur. Little Star is officially becoming Star Junction..."

Little Star sounded familiar.

A spring fed a series of roofed-over pools. He fixed the owner's heat pump, so I saved my coppers, while I chose the busy baths for the "unattached" as I had passionate plans. When he showed up with a towel around his hips, meaning "not hunting," I told him to scrub my back, hopefully answering his question or cluing him into leaving.

While I sat, shampooing, he grabbed a soap bar and sponge. Ohhh! He knew how to preen feathers.

It was a manly skill, though.

"Mother had a large blue wing and a smaller red one—" He knew to not over-soap, and to zip them together with a dot of oil. "—like you."

I glanced back, having to blink away suds. His skin had the same chalky-white pigment as mine. Two small ibex daemon horns above his temple twined together like trees. I shivered. "You remember her?"

"She left her business and my sisters to raise me when I was 4. Yeah."

"Two sisters?"

He nodded. "A red day angel..."

Like her father.

"Another, raven-haired, with—"

"—horns like ours." I dumped the water bucket over my head. His stool skidded back on the tile as I recalled settling for 19 years, having gotten pregnant. Star looked modern now, had more trees, but was smaller. That this bath hadn't existed didn't make it less likely he was my son. I still looked 24.

Always would. Thus his question.

"Nieces and nephews?"

After a pause: "33, over four generations in the registry." Not counting the ones he and other male children had fathered in other women's registries. The genetic math meant I was closely related to many my apparent age, many I'd consider spending time with. It didn't help that, at my age, I shared genes with everyone alive. Except, probably, dragons.

I flashed on a crying little blond toddler whose horns were erupting—dotting me with blood—strangling my leg, refusing to let go. So adorable, with his big sis manically flapping red wings to tug him off.

My hair dripped, which helped—and I had the excuse of suds. A head only held so much space for memories, not ones I worked hard to forget lest I be haunted by generations who'd lived, loved, and left.

I turned and hugged him, sobbing. He patted me after a time. Later I stayed at my daughter's former home, enduring, never admitting any relation to a great-great parent who'd left no pictures of herself.

[Author retains copyright.]

#BoostingIsSharing #fiction #fantasy #sff #writing #writer #writers #author #PennedPossibilities #writingcommunity #writersOfMastodon