After enjoying the painful and explosive seduction of Sasha, Query has found solace with Sprig and Nita. The two roomates-that-could-have-been take her to the cafeteria to eat before the dean's welcome speech. The three get to find the things they have in common, as well as finally understand why they find Query so irresistable.
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Q&Q 5 By Trixie Adara Chapter 5
The walk to the cafeteria in the student center takes forever and no time at all. I know we stop in Finley's room and see that no real damage was done. Most artificers have fail-safes to make sure their workspaces don't explode. She's worried about me, but Sprig covers for us while keeping an eye on Nita, so she doesn't storm back to Sasha's room. The Batgirl is back, and I guess now that she knows I like being a blood donor, she's even more interested in me. As if that's possible. Maybe she doesn't drink blood. Maybe I'm just stereotyping, and that's kinda shitty of me. Do people assume I like spicy foods just because I'm a Devil? I mean, I do, but it's not because I'm a Devil.
The castle is calmer now that most of the freshmen have moved in. The upperclassmen move in before us so that the castle can seem "normal." I guess some corporate Bugbear is convinced that Dalton needs to be run like a mortal school, but it's not like there's any competition for them. We go to Dalton, or we don't get an adventurer's license. Simple as that. We're not like the Ancient Races that have dozens of universities per continent to choose from. If I don't go here, it's a lifetime of skulking through libraries and private collections to learn the magic I need.
The size of the student body doesn't strike me until we're out on the outer bailey, approaching the student center. There are Orcs playing ultimate frisbee, something Nita explains as pickleball which involves no pickles, a little pack of Satyr's lounging topless in the sun, what looks like a rap battle between a Goblin and a Minotaur along with their twenty or so spectators, and then the swimmers. Merfolk, Selkies, Sirens, an Ottergirl who might be the absolute cutest thing I've ever seen, and some Turtlefolk playing volleyball in slow motion.
Life upon life upon life.
It doesn't matter how embarrassing my first day has been; seeing all these people so vibrant and pulsing with delight makes me smile and eases my nerves. It's infectious. Sure, I turn some heads as I walk across the massive expanse of the green lawn, but so do the topless Satyrs and the Centaur that has a Reliven partner on her back, literally riding her in public while kissing the tight lines of her back and shoulder. No. In a crowd this large, I am not the only compelling figure drawing eyes. Thank Lucy.
On the outside and inside, the student center looks exactly like a modern mortal college building through and through. Clean lines, fluorescent lights, cheap furniture that is made to look expensive, and pamphlets for more things than you can think of: rowing club, debate club, dueling club, intramural everything, creative writing workshops, tutoring hours, and on and on it goes. I grab two little tabs for different book clubs, and Nita is apparently interested in intramural soccer. She suggests Sprig join the horticulture society, and Sprig politely shows her the finger with a smile on her face.
"That's not very paladin-like," she says.
"It's not in my oaths to put up with bullshit jokes," Sprig says, her smile spreading to show her teeth.
"What are your oaths?" I ask. Sprig looks at me, and I shrivel into myself. "Not that you need to tell me. If it's none of my business or if that's rude to ask or —"
"Do you serve some plant god?" Nita asks while scraping mud off her shoe.
Sprig puts her hands on my shoulder. "It's not rude to ask at all." She turns to Nita and shoves her into the hallway wall. "And fuck your plant god," Sprig says.
"Hey!" Nita tries to shove Sprig back, but she might as well try to tip over the walls. Sprig's feet are spread into a defensive stance, and she doesn't move. "You're. Cheating. With. Roots. Or something."
"Inside?" Sprig says with a perfectly arched eyebrow.
"Maybe we finish the wrestling match later," I say. Possessed by a supernatural level of comfort and familiarity, I tug on Nita's hand towards the smell of pizza coming down the hallway.
"She saved you," Nita shouts back at Sprig.
Sprig just laughs.
In the line for the cafeteria, Sprig explains that if she were a cleric, she would serve some small plant god. But Sprig is a Dryad, and they need no god. She has taken sacred oaths, and her obligation is to them and them alone. She doesn't say the words of her oath, explaining that they should be written on her heart and spoken with her lips rarely. It's kind of beautiful, and by the end, even Nita gives the notion the respect it deserves.
"So how does this work?" I ask as the line gets closer to the cafeteria proper. "Never done this before."
"Right, so we're going to get swiped in. You have your student id?" I hold up the thin plastic card with an embarrassing picture of me asking the photographer when she was going to take the picture. "Good. So, we swipe in, then you load up your tray with whatever you want."
"No money required," Sprig says before I can ask.
"Okay," I say, taking a deep breath. The laps my brain is running around the situation doesn't make any sense. It can't be worse than the outer bailey or the hallway of the West Tower. If I get lost or confused, I'm sure Sprig or Nita will explain things to me. It's just a cafeteria. It isn't even class. It's eating. It should be the easiest thing I do all semester. What do I have to worry about?
"Want to follow me?" Nita asks right before we swipe in.
"Yes, please."
I'm thankful I do. There were restaurants the one time I visited Russia, but those make sense. You read a menu, pick the items, and ask for them. But this is a room filled with food sitting under heat lamps and dozens of attendants asking you what you want or how you want them. The mortal food isn't bewildering to me thanks to Dad and his cooking skills. But the entire system of waiting in line while an elderly gentleman is impatient with you for looking over your options makes no sense. Some lines are longer than others. Nita goes over to what she calls a salad bar (though no bar is involved) and loads up her plates with vegetables and fruit. I mimic her though I'm not exactly a salad girl. Strawberries are good, and it looks like they've got hard boiled eggs. Nita nibbles on these while she waits in a long line for a burger. No one else is eating food off their plate while they wait, so I don't either. Nita doesn't seem to mind what anyone else is doing, and I marvel at that level of freedom. Regardless, I get a burger after her. I order the same thing she did since I don't want to sort out what my options are. Nita moves towards a section of pasta, but I hesitate. There is a sweet, cheesy, and meaty smell in the air. I move towards it, not empowered with an understanding of how this system works nor an ounce of comfortability with my environment. I am lulled like I imagine the women who swoon over me are seduced.
Pizza.
In Hell, there is no pizza. Allegedly, Dad didn't invent it, but he's made a killing in Hell selling pizza to infernals. Apparently, Devils view it as mortal cuisine second only to devouring mortal souls. No Devil can attain any sustenance from the magical combination of bread, marinara, and mozzarella. No. They do it only for the pleasure of the act. This miracle of compelling Devils to put themselves at the mercy of a mortal has made Dad remarkably successful back home. He is treated as an equal among Mom's people, even though he makes bad dad puns and wears sandals with socks.
Throughout my life, pizza has been one of the many ways Dad has shown me he loves me. Every Friday night is Family Movie Night, and we make pizza together and play cards while we wait for it to cook. After that, we put a movie on, rotating who gets to pick the film of the week. Everyone has to attend. Bo. Dad. Mom. Me. There have been rare interplanar excuses for missing Family Movie Night, but they have been rare and tragic. I know pizza isn't an actual culinary miracle, but each slice tastes like sitting on the couch with my mom and dads, cuddling while watching one of Dad's shitty kung fu films, Mom's over-the-top rom-coms, or Bo's cerebral and dark sci-fi movies. It tastes like home.
So, I break off from Nita and follow my nose to an entire table filled with different pizzas. I stand at a distance and watch people come and go, picking up slices, putting them on their plates or trays, and walking away. A woman works behind the counter, making pizza after pizza and cutting them into perfect wedges. Once I have the hang of it, I approach and put a slice of cheese pizza on my plate. I look around. Nothing happens. I mean, I knew nothing would happen. But there's a lot of pizza, and the woman is going to make more. What would happen if I took another slice? I do. No one says anything. So maybe I could take another slice. Or another after that. People mutter behind me, but they seem to want me to hurry up. No one cares how much I take. Feeling nervous that I'm going too slow, I pull the entire pizza onto my tray and walk away as quickly as possible. I glance behind me, and no one says anything to me as they get their own slice.
And just like that, I fall in love with college.
Sprig and Nita didn't say what happens after I've gotten my food on my tray, but I follow the crowd to a room full of tables and chairs. I don't have to look around for Nita and Sprig because Nita is standing, waving her arms, and shouting my name so that the whole cafeteria can hear her. For once, I'm not embarrassed to have everyone see me or know my business. I laugh, and the laugh is free and easy. Friends. My friends. I don't know how it happened or happened so fast, but I don't want to question it right now. In a thousand worlds, I'd imagined my first meal and my hundredth meal at Dalton would be on my own. Goes to show that I'm not as clever as I think.
But as I pass the other tables, I don't see any tray with an entire pizza on it. Most people have a burger and fries. Nothing else. Maybe they have a dessert or a salad nearby. Maybe they went for pasta instead of a burger. But no one has nearly as much food on their plate as I do. And as I pass them, I can't help but feel the rolls of my stomach. These girls are little twigs or impossible carved rocks of muscle. Maybe they're dads didn't make pizza with them. Maybe it was family runs in the park while I was staring at the fiery hills of Hell. My hoofsteps feel heavier, like I'm stomping to my table. My body feels too wide to pass through the aisles of the cafeteria.
"There's our girl," Sprig says as I sit down at their table. I slide in next to them, but the table of the booth feels too close, and I worry about my stomach pressing against it. Maybe I'll get sauce on Nita's hoodie, and then what will she think? Maybe they'll laugh when they see that I've grabbed a whole pizza. No one else did. Of course not. I'm the only one who —
Sprig and Nita's trays are loaded with food. Sprig has almost a dozen cookies on her plate, and Nita is devouring a bowl of ice cream before starting her salad or her pasta or her burger. I marvel at them, but Nita keeps taking out her phone and checking the time while she shovels load after load of food into herself.
"We have time," Sprig says.
"I want a good seat," Nita says with her mouth full of spaghetti and noodles dangling from her lips.
"For what? A speech?"
"Sure." Nita slurps up her noodles, but before she's swallowed, she shoves a breadstick in her mouth. "Why not?"
"It doesn't really matter."
"Well, when you put it that way, nothing matters."
"That's a bit of a leap."
"Sure, but so is nihilism."
Sprig shakes her head. "I don't think you know what that means."
"What are you two talking about?" I ask.
"Dean's welcome," Nita says. She shovels more spaghetti in her mouth. "Speech of something. In the amphitheater."
"It's just for the freshmen," Sprig adds. "It's a final orientation moment."
"And I wanna see the dean up close," Nita says. She's still chewing spaghetti, but that doesn't stop stealing one of Sprig's cookies and adding it into the mix. "See if she's not made of clocks or whatever."
I look at Sprig, confused. "Why would she be made of clocks?"
"Honestly? I have no idea." She takes a handful of nuts and pops them into her mouth.
Nita manages to get some noises out of her mouth despite all the food obstructing the soundwaves, but no sentient force in the universe could possibly understand it. Despite this, she goes to add a bite of bread stick before Sprig bats her hand away. Nita's face shifts color and shape for just a second, making her look more ursine than human. She snarls, but Sprig looks more annoyed than terrified.
"Be civil," Sprig says. "I think you're scaring Query."
Nita looks from me to her loaded tray of messy food and then back to me. "Shorry," she says.
"It's fine," I say. "I'm not scared. Just ..."
"Berserkers," Sprig says with a shake of her head before taking a bite of her vegan burger.
"I said I was sorry," Nita says, her words clearer now that they aren't drowning in food. All around us, most people are eating their food and minding their own business. Why should they care about what three girls are eating or how messy they are when they eat? Is Nita odd? Yeah. But she's no stranger than the Oozling who is shoving meatballs into her stomach with tentacles and slowly dissolving the meat into her body. It has to be the amount of food between the three of us. There are a few guys I can see in the cafeteria that are focused on a huge pile of food, but three girls eating enough for twelve of the little toothpicks in the cafeteria? Maybe that's —
"What's wrong?" Sprig asks.
"I just ..." I poke the cheese pizza in front of me. "I think I took too much food."
"I'll eat —" Nita starts, but when Sprig glares at her, Nita holds up a finger for us to wait while she chews and swallows. "I can eat whatever you don't finish," she says. "It'll save me from making a second trip."
"Same," Sprig says. While she may not be eating as messily as Nita, Sprig has certainly been eating as quickly. Her movements are sure and efficient, but she is clearly focused entirely on getting as much food in her body as fast as possible.
"You two are going to get more?" I ask.
"Oh yeah," Nita says.
Sprig nods.
"Why?" I shake my head. "I'm sorry. I mean ..." Shit. What do I mean? I mean that girls their size shouldn't be eating more than me? Am I judging them for wanting to stuff themselves on food while I'm doing the same thing? Should I shame them for the very same thing I'm embarrassed about?
"Gains," Nita says with her mouth full of food (and not apologizing this time). "Sweet, sweet gains." Nita flexes the arm not currently deputized for food shoveling duty. I know she's strong. I mean, she picked me up. She's got a gym. She's a berserker. It's not surprising that she's got muscle, but to see it curl up on her bicep and to see the bulging lines go from her arm to shoulder to back or clavicle or neck.
Lucy's tits.
"We have to eat about four thousand calories a day just to maintain muscle," Sprig explains.
"Maintain," Nita says.
"About six thousand to put on muscle. It may be more or less between us, but it's about twice as much as any typical organism needs to eat."
"Wow," I say. I've never been in the calorie counting world. Mom has put protective wards all around our house to prevent weight loss advertising and body-shaming propaganda. She says it's for her and Alma as much as it's for me, but they're bodies don't roll and roll the way mine does. Unfortunately, I don't need the advertising to feel the shame. All I have to do is look around the world and see what's normal and what's me.
"And seriously," Sprig says, pointing to my pizza. "I love cheese."
"Who doesn't?" Nita says, reaching for one of my slices.
"Hey!" I say, and I slap her hand away with a tiny blast of fire.
"Fuck," Nita says, shaking her hand before sucking on the spot where my fire hit.
"That's why manners are important," Sprig says with a chuckle.
"Yeah, yeah. Sorry for trying to steal your pizza," Nita mutters.
"No worries," I say. "Sorry for the fire. It was instinct."
"I get it." Nita scoops some of the ice out of her glass of water and holds it against the bright red spot of her burn. "Same thing if you scratch under my chin." She shrugs. "After that, I'm not responsible for what happens to you."
"Good to know," I say.
"Yeah, I'll have to avoid bedtime chins scratches," Sprig says. She smirks to herself again, and it's infectious. Soon we're all laughing and focusing on eating. I don't maintain their ridiculous pace; it seems to take all the joy out of eating. To me, I'm nibbling on delectable memories of home; they're just filling up their gas tanks. Not that anything's wrong with that. Just not my thing.
Nita keeps checking the time, and Sprig keeps telling her to stop. When I press, they explain that apparently the dean likes to show off the seniors and make the speech a bit of a spectacle. That's one reason to get good seats, but the real reason for Nita is that there are rumors that the dean is an automaton herself. She's the one that programs and runs all the little robo-helpers all over campus, but some people speculate that she's an android. Sprig says that's nonsense, and I'm more inclined to agree with her, but Nita is adamant that our school is run by a robot.
But our conversation gets derailed when the third girl walks past our booth and lingers, staring at me and trying to interrupt our conversation before Nita tells them to scram when she sees how uncomfortable it all makes me.
"Okay, so I have to ask," Nita says, "what's your deal?"
"Fuzzy Bear ..." Sprig warns.
"Listen, Treebeard," she says, "that's like the seventh hundredth girl to check our precious Query out, and it's not that she isn't adorable." Nita puts her hand on my shoulder. "You are, trust me." Her hand lingers on my skin, warm and cozy, and our eyes lock for a heavy moment. Her eyes are the warmest color of caramel and honey — like her scent. Her eyes dilate, and her breaths deepen as I recognize the signs of arousal. Neither of us remember what she was saying and —
"Yeah, that," she says as she pulls her hand away like it's been burned a second time. "What the fuck is that?"
"Oh, um." I blush and look down at my lap. My hands burrow deeper into the front pocket of Nita's hoodie.
"It reminds me of pheromones, but these are interspecies?" Sprig takes a bite of one of her cookies as though we're talking about the weather and not the fact that my presence melts the minds of women and puts them in heat.
"It's not her smell," Nita says. She leans closer and takes a long sniff. "Fuck. Though she does smell good."
"It's more like an aura, like a glamour," I say.
Sprig nods knowingly. "That makes sense."
"Like a Vampire?"
"Like a Succubus," I say. "My mom is one. My dad is mortal. So, I'm a half-Devil with —"
"A horny aura," Nita says. "A whora, if you will."
"I won't," Sprig says.
I smile. "That's funny."
"See?" Nita says, jabbing her spoon at Sprig. "She likes it."
"It's better than saying my mom's blood makes everyone want to drop their panties around me."
"Woah," Nita says. "The mouth on this girl."
I blush, and purple flame dances over my horns.
"It's none of our business," Nita says. She shoves a forkful of salad into her mouth. "But if you want to tell me everything," she says with her mouth full, "in lurid detail, I'd love that."
"Oh, um. I don't know what to say," I say. "It's just an effect I have on people."
"All people?"
"Non male people," I say.
Nita nods. "So, the sexy ones."
I smirk. "Yeah, sure. The sexy ones."
"There's nothing wrong with male people," Sprig says.
"Of course not," Nita says. "Some people have to be unsexy so us sexy ones can shine."
"I agree," I say, finding my footing in the conversation. It's like with enough words and stumbling attempts, talking with Sprig and Nita can almost feel like talking to Alma. Almost.
"Out of curiosity," I say, "do you two feel it?"
"Your whora?" Nita says.
"Stop trying to make whora happen."
"Stop quoting movies that are two decades old."
"It's a musical now," Sprig says.
"No. Musicals are like boys. Banned."
"This is it," Sprig says. "Someone call Finley because this is our first roommate fight." Her voice is calm, and while I think Nita is just teasing, I can tell that she's stepped on a nerve with Sprig.
"I've never seen a musical," I say, hoping to change the energy between them.
"That's my girl," Nita says at the same time that Sprig says, "Oh, we're going to fix that." The two glare at each other.
"Hamilton cannot play in our room," Nita says. "I will scream."
Sprig says nothing, but she starts to hum something, and whatever it is gets under Nita's skin. Hair erupts over her forearms as she grips the edge of the booth's table, letting her claws dig into the wood.
"The whora," I say. "Do you two feel it?"
Sprig looks away from Nita and lets her smirk wilt. "Of course," Sprig says.
"Yeah," Nita says. "Since the first time you rounded the corner."
"Then why don't you two ..."
"Act like slobs?" Sprig asks.
"Yeah?"
"I'm not a predator," Sprig says. "Plenty of women —" She looks pointedly at Nita, "—and male folk—" She looks back at me, "—are alluring to me. But that doesn't mean I drape myself over them and try to bring them back to my bed."
"Or bite them," Nita says. "That's just rude."
"But you feel it?"
"Gosh, yes," Nita says with a sigh. "You're really fucking hot."
"I'm not trying to force you to compliment me," I say. "I just don't get it. Most people who are affected by it can't seem to control themselves."
"Well, we're strong," Nita says.
"And self-control is kinda my thing," Sprig adds.
"Oh, well, I'm sorry that you feel it."
"Don't be," Sprig says. "If you were in a skimpy bikini, you'd have all my attention, but that wouldn't give me an excuse to prey upon you."
"Paladins are big into consent," Nita says.
Sprig glares at her.
"As ... all people should be," Nita says nervously. "Me too. I fucking love consent."
"But it's artificial," I say. "A glamour."
"No more artificial than a hot pair of tits," Nita says.
"True," Sprig says.
"It's not ..." I shrug. "I don't know ... unfair?"
Sprig reaches across the table and puts her hand on mine. My skin erupts with goosebumps, and my scalp tingles from the cool and soft sensation of her touch. "Query, you are beautiful. Like any beautiful woman, if there is a time and place where we both want to manifest our desires for each other with physical touch, as long as we both consent to it, it's perfectly natural."
"And that's coming from a Dryad," Nita says. "She knows about natural."
"Does that mean you —" I freeze, realizing how dangerous the next words I want to say could be. Do they want to touch me? Does Sprig want to manifest her desires for me with physical touch? Does she have desires for me? And if she does, should we skip the dean's speech and go back to her room? What about Nita? She said I'm hot. Does that mean she wants to ... with me ... could we ...
"What time is it?" I ask, hoping to change the subject. "Are we going to miss the good seats?"
It works. Nita checks her phone, mutters, "Oh shit," and stands with her tray. I mimic her and follow her to a place where everyone is dumping their used dishes and throwing away their excess food.
"Well done," Sprig says behind me.
"Just seems like a silly thing to fight about," I say.
"We'll see what you think when I show you Hamilton."
I smile as we follow Nita out of the cafeteria and back to the outer bailey towards the amphitheater. I haven't given much thought about the dean of Dalton, but now that the hype has been built, I want to see if our school is indeed run by a robot.
If you want to support me, or if you want more, you can find the next eight chapters of this series on my Patreon for only $5 at
https://www.patreon.com/trixieadara or chat with me on Twitter @AdaraBeatrix