Wild Thing

by L. J. Kendall

  And then, as one leg stretched sensuously out and she began stalking toward him, the music rose and wrapped around her. He had found a more modern group, from her own playlist, who had a tribute to the almost one hundred year old song that had so inspired her, whose surging, driving bass would surely stir her blood.

  It seemed to snare her, and she slowly turned, looking back at him over her shoulder. A look; a promise: soon.

  Then the sudden, heavy beat caught her, crashing through her body like a breaking wave, and she turned and plunged wildly into the music.

  Wild Thing

  You make the light spring

  You make the world sing

  Wild Thing

  You make my eyes dim

  You make my soul dream

  ...

  Her eyes flashed as she accepted the song as homage; took it into herself, and then expressed it in dance.

  A primal, driving dance: her every movement a scribing of passion in the air. Each gesture declared her savagery, her desire. There was no restraint: she poured all her considerable strength, all her athlete's skills, and all her grace into the song.

  She spun around him, whirling through the room. Twisting, weaving, tumbling through the air: stalking, grasping and killing, in mime. And every movement, every frozen pause, matched perfectly to the rhythm. It was a consummate exhibition. So much so, that lost in his appreciation of its sheer artistry, he did not at first see where it was headed; ignored the message being sent. Until, as her circling movements meshed and focused, drawing tight the net she wove around him with her body, his heart suddenly thudded as he realized: she came for him.

  She tore her clothes from her body as the dance built to its climax: shredded them with an ease he found profoundly disturbing. The sight, together with her beautiful curves, beaded and glistening with sweat, flushed and urgent with passion, sank into him like knives, slicing away the last tatters of his reserve and detachment, awakening the power of his own libido. He was painfully aroused. But it was arousal laced with fear as she at last stood before him. He found himself on his feet.

  'Sara, no, we shouldn't do this. I've changed my-'

  'Who's Sara?' she demanded, cutting him off and pressing her naked, fevered body up against his. She guided his hands to her breasts, moaning in ecstasy at his touch.

  Then her hands were clawing at his clothes, tearing and pulling, sliding and stroking, then forcing him down. She saw his eyes widen in surprise at her strength, and it pleased her. Together they fell to the floor, where she made a second blood-sacrifice in a moment of delicious pain.

  In the smothering moment of pleasure, it felt to her as though she were tearing open in many ways: opening up on levels whose existence she could only dimly perceive.

  She was Life. She was Death.

  She was Leeth.

  Later, by her side in her bed – and hadn't that been a strange thrill, darting naked from his office to her rooms? – Harmon lay awake, profoundly troubled. This was wrong, on so many levels. Immoral. Illegal. Any court in the land would see it for what it was: abuse, even rape. He wanted to blame her, but he knew the fault lay with himself. He was not the one who had been drugged.

  Should word of this leak out…. He would need to Suggest they keep this private moment private.

  It must never happen again.

  Couldn't I have found some other way? I should have stopped her; found someone her own age. But I didn't want that, did I? Even the thought of sharing her….

  At least this way, she hadn't gone out and killed anyone. But now that the goal had been achieved – his theory, vindicated! – there was no need for any further indulgences.

  At least, not until she's a little older, eh Alex? a darker, still-hungry part of him whispered.

  I should leave now. Return to my own bedroom. Instead, he lay propped up in the dim light, emotions and thoughts churning darkly within. He knew he should get up. Part of him urged the departure; but a part wanted to stay. In the warmth and comfort of her bed. He liked her, and suddenly it seemed possible to more than like her. She was almost beautiful; and so open and demonstrative….

  He forced the weakness away, while he pondered. She had Unfolded, he was sure; yet there had been no display of magic at all. No spontaneous levitation; no uncontained outpouring of damaging energies; no uncontrolled astral excursion. Clearly, she still needed his supporting framework of psychic stresses to push her forward and onward to her full Unfolding.

  Besides, he had the uncomfortable feeling that despite all his manipulation and preparation, despite the drugs and all the effort he'd expended on directing her to this point… in a way, at the very end she had seduced him. Had taken control at the key moment.

  He had to stay strong. Had to remember she was so very self-centered, so very selfish – except when it pleased her.

  So very appealing.

  But wasn't that exactly the danger? He gazed at her clinically, finally seeing her beauty for the trap it was. A trap through which she would gain control, just as she'd tried so many times before. Always, it was a battle with her. Always, a contest of wills. But he was, after all, her creator. The architect of this whole experiment.

  Yet see how easily she had overturned his detachment, how nearly she had ensnared him? How long had she been tempting him, after all, flaunting her body, her sexuality? You drugged her; removed her inhibitions, a small voice cried. Well, perhaps he had… but she could have resisted had she wanted. He knew, better than anyone, just how very well she could resist when she wanted to.

  Indeed, had she not in fact engineered the entire situation exactly that way: by resisting, by making the experiment stall, by forcing him to resort to chemical intervention? Was Godsson right, seeing the shadow of the archetypal seductress, Lilith, in her?

  He drew back, shakily. For a while, had she not even managed to confuse him, preying on his animal urges? As if that could be enough to sway him for more than a moment! Well, he had fallen, yes. Had let his animal urges take control. Had let her seduce him.

  Should this get out, it would ruin his career. Ruin him.

  But he would not allow that. The work was too important.

  Well, if that was how she wished to play the game, it would fit nicely with the next, necessary steps.

  Perhaps she had even somehow sensed the ordeal she must soon begin to suffer to reach her full potential. Now that she had finally Unfolded, he could bring the experiment to a new level of intensity. She was stronger, now, more resilient.

  Yes.

  Gently, he eased out of her bed. She made a small sleepy sound of loss. For a moment, his resolve weakened as he stared down at her. But then he straightened. He had to stay in control. She was the one who would benefit most from the experiment, after all.

  He left the room.

  Chapter 38

  It was now five months after her seventeenth – and as usual, uncelebrated – birthday. Only a month until the summer solstice. But Harmon had decided it was time for her to start meeting people, interacting with strangers. The last time he'd taken her anywhere had been only their second expedition, what was it, two years – no, three years ago? Hmm. While it was far simpler to leave her here when he visited the city, perhaps that was a false convenience. Raising her almost entirely in isolation at the Institute could have untoward effects. Suppose she developed a fear of strangers, or crowds? So for today, he had decided they should again venture out into New Francisco. He had planned a steady escalation of contact with other people, culminating in dinner for the two of them at a nightclub.

  They set off at 9 a.m for the Golden Gate Park: a gentle introduction. Parklands, much like those the Institute possessed – except this park was much larger, and populated. He himself had been surprised at just how populated it was, even when they first arrived at nine thirty. Joggers, picnickers, groups of people playing various ball games, couples strolling about. How different from even ten years before.

  A fresh breeze brought
the scent of recently-cut grass. In the distance, a compact robot mower traversed its area-filling path through the grassy areas, patiently stopping when a child ran up to it, before the mother dragged the boy away.

  The park brimmed with trees, many of them quite old, surprisingly few freshly planted or transplanted. He pointed out the modern concrete paths, laid to replace those that had either been smashed during the Big One, or shattered by the ice of the Second World Storm at the end of ’44. They'd been passing by Stow Lake at the time.

  'This whole area remained underwater for five years, from the combined effects of the sea level rise back then and the deluge from the Storm. It would have been much worse, too, had not the Antarctic re-icing not been so well-advanced by then.'

  Sara giggled, but stopped the instant he frowned at her.

  'Don't you mean the Newtopian re-icing, Uncle?' she asked, eyes wide.

  'Bah! The fool politicians should have at most given them a ninety-nine year lease, not-'

  At the pleased gleam in her eyes, he stopped himself, realizing she had been baiting him. He took a breath. 'I suppose they did have other disasters on their hands, after the collapse of the net and the Second Storm.'

  'The net collapsed? For real? I didn't think it could. I thought it was indestructible!'

  'We have covered this in your History lessons, Leeth.'

  'Did we? I don't think you ever…'

  'Yes. We did. Apparently some Universal Constant wasn't.'

  She waited, then saw he'd stopped. 'Wasn't what?'

  'Constant. Something to do with quantum mechanics and how the Packed-light Effect simply stopped working.'

  He had lost her again, he saw. He also now recalled exactly the same glazed look the last time he had covered this topic. He had noticed that tendency before – her attention seemed much stronger if he could couch such information in dramatic terms: as a collapse, battle, or calamity.

  Ah, well.

  They continued on, simply enjoying the weather. Now noon, he slumped on a park-bench in the sun, resting.

  He wasn't sure how it had happened – he'd planned to spend only half an hour or so here – but she'd dragged him backwards and forwards all through the park. It was her infectious enthusiasm, he supposed: her delight had been palpable. Somehow, she had sensed his decision that this was to be a special day for her. And so they had traversed kilometers of the park. She had invented a game of sprinting up to joggers, running alongside or just behind them for a while and then sprinting back to him. He had to smile: somehow the picture of a sheepdog herding sheep was irresistibly summoned to mind each time she did this. The men, for the most part, didn't seem to mind but the female joggers clearly did. Sara – Leeth, dammit! – Leeth seemed to enjoy both reactions.

  Then she'd spent ten minutes hunting ducks in the duck-pond. The docile ducks were disturbed by the unusual occurrence of a human wading amongst them. By the time he had caught up to her, she had already caught one bare-handed and was gleefully on her way out to present it to him. She was quite cross when he made her put it back into the pond. It took wing instantly, of course. Leeth had looked at him reproachfully as it flew away.

  After that, she'd wanted to find a swimming pool to rid herself of the smell of the slimy pond water. Fortunately, she was wearing only a thin halter and a pleated miniskirt, all in black. Luckily too, the pond had only been thigh-deep.

  Harmon checked his map, and sighed. The pool of course was beyond the other end of the park.

  He sighed, as she looked entreatingly at him. Besides, he could hardly take her to the restaurant he had planned if she smelled of duck pond.

  -

  Disten suspected there was a magical component to the Call. It had taken two years to slowly, uncertainly, identify the New Francisco or Oaklands area as the place where the solution would be found. For a year, now, he had lived quietly in a suburban backwater. Waiting.

  And today, at 09:01:13 precisely, interrupting his study of research into means of altering mental states, awareness of the other had flared into awareness.

  It had brought him to the northern boundary of the Golden Gate Recreation Center.

  Disten's car parked itself. She was in there. Close.

  Outside the car, the sunlight was very bright. Narrow the eyes. So many things to remember: eyes were easily damaged if exposed too long to too much light. A cost of having total control of the autonomic nervous system.

  The car finished locking and Disten moved to enter the park.

  'Excuse me, sir. This your vehicle?'

  Disten turned. Two officers, one inside and one outside the police vehicle.

  This again.

  'Yes.'

  'And your name is?'

  'Marc Disten. The registered owner. You have already checked the license and know this. You wonder why the expensive vehicle has suffered damage to its paintwork which has not been repaired.

  'The damage is cosmetic. Repairs would take time, and waste money since a pristine finish merely attracts further assaults. Is there anything else?'

  'Well, yes, sir, we have had a complaint about this vehicle.'

  Disten waited.

  'Offensive language and indecency.'

  'That is incorrect. When was the complaint made?'

  'Ten minutes ago. Are you claiming you are unaware of the message on the back of your vehicle, Mr Disten?'

  'There are numerous scratches on the rear. Has something new been added?' Walking to the rear of the vehicle, an inspection was made. Amongst the indecipherable gouges a new message had been added – “Kill all Muties,” perhaps – as well as a new abstract diagram consisting mainly of large ellipses and circles.

  He pointed to the fresh “Muties” graffiti. 'That is new, as is the diagram.'

  'Diagram, sir? You mean the enormous dick and pussy, sir?'

  'Is it? Ah. This is the penis, yes? And this, the vulva.' Disten considered the idea. 'Yes. This would be seen as offensive.'

  'Well, yeah, clever of you to realize that, sir. And I might add, there are parts of the city where that anti-Mutie sentiment would get you into trouble, too. Serious trouble.'

  Disten thought about that. 'Understood. You recommend removal. At the earliest convenience?'

  'Well, yeah, Mr Disten, that might be a good idea.'

  'Do you have a permanent marker pen? Black?'

  The officer who had remained in the police car had been shaking her head. At his question, though, she bent down out of sight, then sat up and flung a slim cylinder across the cruiser's roof toward her partner.

  Disten caught it and turned, efficiently blacking out the deep score marks. He handed the marker to his interlocutor.

  'That should suffice until spray paint can be applied. Is there anything else, officer?'

  For long seconds the officer stared at him. Then turned back to his partner, whose expression Disten was unable to read, though she did shrug.

  The man echoed that shrug, then turned back to Disten. 'No, sir. You have a nice day.'

  How did the formula go? Ah, yes. 'Thank you. You have a nice day also, officer.'

  Turning, he sensed which direction to proceed. A little further away, and now directly west. Instead of entering the park, he set out toward the path above the coast.

  -

  Tired from the long walk, Harmon had failed to tell Leeth she should use the shower facilities first. He hadn't realized his error until she had backed up three steps to jump the stone wall, plunging into the refurbished baths seconds later. He winced again, remembering the ring of detritus she'd left floating in the water, and the angry face of the female lifeguard as she stormed up.

  He had had to apologize, pay a fee, and Leeth was still ejected from the pool, much to her disgust. They'd left quickly.

  On the way back she had decided her clothes would dry faster, off, and somehow he had found himself wringing out her halter and skirt and carrying them while she soaked up the sun in just her bra and bikini bottom. She'
d been fascinated by the rugged, dark coastline, and the surging waves, and for a while he let her explore as they made their way around the low cliffs before the terrain forced them to climb back up. With some relief, on his part: he would not want to be caught there when the tide came back in. It had only been a short walk directly south, to re-enter the park proper once more.

  There, she had discovered a group playing baseball. Now dry, she had talked her way into the game; somehow even talked him into joining her. He'd had to prod her into donning her now-dry clothes first, though. That reverse striptease had certainly pleased the boys in the group.

  He shut his eyes against the sun, smiling at the memory of her feral grin, her fiercely poised “attack” on the first ball pitched to her. The young man, 'Skeet', had been clearly attracted to Leeth, much to the annoyance of his girlfriend. Knowing she was a novice, since he had just had to explain the basics to her, Skeet had pitched a gentle ball to her. The ball, Harmon recalled with delight, had almost taken the boy's head off. If he hadn't ducked….

  Leeth had been fascinated by it all, especially the teamwork. At that point, however, he had sensed potential trouble. He did not want his Huntress turning into just another team player. Besides, he was close to exhausted. So they had left, the sound of a developing argument fading behind them as they moved away.

  Harmon let Leeth drag him right across the park before he decided she was far enough from the attraction of the group to allow him a short rest. They reached a quiet hollow with another pond, and together moved down the bank. Above, a willow draped its cool green shade across the ill-kept grass and algae-scummed water.

  Completely exhausted, he sank down on a convenient, shaded park bench.

  'I'm just going to catch my breath, Leeth. We'll hunt up some food shortly, so don't go wandering off.' He closed his eyes in blissful relaxation.

  Chapter 39

  As Harmon and Leeth had receded into the distance, neither had been aware of the drama that played out soon after. Maybe if Skeet's eyes hadn't followed the departing figures so carefully; or maybe if the expression on his face hadn't been so obvious; or maybe if it just hadn't changed so completely when he turned and saw that his girlfriend had seen it, then it all would have been different and Skeet might have seen his next day.