Beth listened and learned. She watched and waited. The hunter would hurt her — but not harm her — in his playing was the first useful thing she determined. He mostly spoke English, teaching her only basic commands in the other language. Stay and stand. Come here and go away.

    Her duties consisted of entertaining him. The few small chores required to maintain a tidy ship he performed without her help. Beth spent hours in idle boredom. Far too much time, she decided, as the futility of her situation numbed her mind.

    Beth began practicing her katas and performing dance steps from the lessons she had as a child. Invariably, her self-inflicted training sessions would incite the Yeter and his passion. To herself, shameful and angry, she admitted her intentions had been fulfilled. She almost looked forward to his attentions for a change from running on the endless and pointless hamster wheel of her worry.

    When he left the ship, he locked her in the smaller cabin. Upon returning, he boasted of his prowess. She was expected to listen and nod on cue and admire the souvenir he'd chosen. A shirt, a piece of jewelry, or some meaningless trinket from his victim's pocket thrilled him. Sometimes he'd return empty-handed and surly. He'd slap at her, and make her cry. Her moans diverted him from his disappointments. Beth despised her effortless tears.

    Once he brought back Chinese food. She sat cross-legged and devoured the bounty. He'd fed her regularly, but his food tasted like variations of unsweetened oatmeal and boiled chicken and was more easily ignored than digested. The Yeter sampled each item but didn't like the taste of any except the egg-drop soup, which suited Beth. She hated snot soup. The hunter laughed when she burped.

    “God, I love Chinese.” The thought slipped out before she could stop the words. The perfunctory slap came as no surprise.

    “I know,” the hunter murmured, pulling her into his lap to sniff her. He never tired of her smell, though what the attraction was he wouldn't explain. He'd say she smelled like sex, which was to be expected considering his appetite for rape.

    “I saw you. You squirmed to noises,” he said, shaking his head, obviously not a fan of club music. “When you left, though you were not my intended quarry, I followed.” His fingers slipped inside her momentarily, and she felt the wetness his touch inspired. He sniffed her scent from his hand. “You and a male. You said you loved Chinese food.”

    Beth remembered that date. The man had been the friend of a friend and had been amusing enough to take home after stopping for a late dinner. They'd made love, and finished off the leftovers. She had exclaimed then how good the food was. The Yeter had been there, in her apartment, watching. Learning about her. Beth shivered. Why her?

    “Seba, I decided that I would have you.” The run in the park was irrelevant, at some point he would have taken her. His hand held her chin, twisting to open her shoulder and nape to his nostrils. She could feel his teeth against the soft skin behind her ear.

    She imagined a whole network of tiny pinprick scars scattered like freckles on her neck and shoulders, each testifying to another victory over his captive. The Yeter's other palm cupped and kneaded her breast. Her nipples peaked involuntarily and he rumbled his satisfaction of her arching response.

    He licked the remnants of soy sauce from her cheek. “So, as my trophy this time, I brought you my quarry's supper.”

    Beth started. The hard arms held her, demonstrating that her release was at his discretion, before granting her liberty. The Yeter might pass as human in the dark of a club, but not in a restaurant. Someone else, innocent of anything except stopping in the wrong eatery, had purchased the meal and had been murdered for a couple of take-out cartons of her favorite food.

    The hunter watched as she vomited and took his pleasure as she cried.