He’s different than anyone she’s ever known.
He isn’t like daddy with his scales and fangs who turned to goo around her, playing tag and tucking her in at night, kissing her forehead and then kissing mother. He isn’t like mama either, with her soft eyes and quiet songs, singing gently to her as she worries over her, telling her stories of adventures and love as she takes her to the playground. He’s something different entirely, and she wonders if he is like the bad guy in the stories that mama tells—the one so clearly divided into good and bad, light and darkness. The kind of stories with black and white dividers that always wrap up so neatly by the end of them.
(Nothing like the truth of mama’s life, although Adna has no idea of such things.)
“A monster?” she asks, eyes growing wide. “What is a monster doing here?”
She’s a little more hesitant now, suspicion settling into her bones as her serpentine eyes narrow, watching as he spits the blood onto the ground. That certainly looked like something a bad guy would do, but he wasn’t attacking her or being mean, and she’s not sure at all what she is supposed to do. Truthfully, she should be more frightened than she is, but she’s never had any reason to not be brave. Her parents always watched over her, always protected her. There had never been any reason to not feel safe.
At his question, she tilts her head to the side. The sun catches the mahogany of her scales, her mother’s coloring shining through features that are all her father’s. “I’m Adna?” her voice lifts at the end, turning the answer into a question. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what I’m supposed to say.” She’s never thought about it before. Never thought about what she is. She was just Adna. Just a little snake girl who had been born into a seemingly perfect family. She had never had to think of herself in any other context.
But the question makes her nervous, her stomach beginning to hurt, and she takes a step back.
“Do I need to call for my daddy?”