Child of Twilight

by Margaret L. Carter

  He’d let out a wordless hoot. “You got to be putting me on! Then if you tried this, you’d probably break both legs.”

  His derision angered Gillian. “I would not! I can do anything I want to do!”

  Even then, perhaps, she’d owned a trace of the power of compulsion she expected to develop as an adult, because without another thought the boy had dismounted from the bike and shoved it at her. “Go ahead and try! But if you wreck it, your parents have to pay for it. Dumb girl!”

  From watching the angle of the boy’s torso and the rhythm of his legs as he’d pumped the pedals, Gillian had rapidly picked up the basic technique. She wobbled up and down the street once, then rode smoothly on the next pass. The third time around she felt ready to practice the stunt he’d performed. After a few false starts she had balanced the bike as deftly as the performer in the circus she’d recently watched on television. Drop-jawed, the boy had watched her ride faster and faster, weaving in and out of holes between parked cars, making the bike jump up and down curbs, glorying in the swift movement and the breeze whipping her hair.

  Then a familiar voice had shattered her pleasant trance. “Gillian! Just what do you think you’re doing?”

  She’d locked the brakes and jumped clear of the bicycle. Striding across the street, Dr. Volnar had seized her hand. After one look at the tall, grim-faced man in dark glasses, the boy had retrieved his bike and fled on it.

  “I was only playing,” she gasped as Volnar half-dragged her toward Connecticut Avenue. “He let me use the bicycle—I wasn’t doing any harm—”

  “No harm!” Volnar paused to glare at her, then resumed his rapid pace. “You know very well that you are never to show yourself in public without me.”

  “Yes, sir, I know.” The blaze of his anger blotted out all the joy of her new accomplishment. He’d never reacted this way the other times she’d slipped out by herself.

  “And you are never, never to show off in front of people.”

  “Oh. I didn’t think—”

  “You certainly did not.” They crossed Connecticut and walked in the direction of the hotel. “He was only one boy, and when he talks about your—demonstration—his elders will say he’s exaggerating. But suppose you’d done something more obviously impossible? Or suppose he had noticed your teeth?” At that stage her dentition had resembled a wolf’s more than a human child’s. “And what if adults had been present?”

  Thoroughly miserable now, Gillian had said nothing.

  “Fortunately in most cases people refuse to believe the impossible. They will deny their own senses rather than let their world-view be overturned. But you cannot count on that weakness. You must never count on it!” He’d punctuated that sentence by grasping her shoulders and spinning her around to stare into her eyes.

  “Yes, sir,” she whispered. “I’ll remember.”

  “Indeed you will. I intend to imprint it on your mind.” Instead of taking her back to the hotel, he had walked her to the National Zoo. Now, jogging through a forest on a December night, inhaling the scent of wet pine, Gillian vividly recalled the ammonia smell of the animal cages stinging her nose.

  Volnar had hustled her straight to the big cats and pulled her to the rail overlooking the tiger pen. One of the tigers had lain on his side, motionless except for the flick of his tail, basking in the feeble sun diffused through the overcast sky. The other tiger had paced an unvarying path along the edge of the artificial hill, his muzzle always turned toward the spectators. Gillian recalled a whiff of rotting meat from the tigers’ last meal and the shrill cries of two little boys in overalls a few feet away, fighting over a box of popcorn. Their mother had shrieked at them, “You two stop that this instant, or it’s back to the car! Come over here and look at Tigger!”

  Staggering from sensory overload, Gillian had let Dr. Volnar guide her away. When they’d settled on a bench in the shade, he’d said, “Would you want to spend your life like that—imprisoned, on exhibit, viewed as a rare and dangerous wild beast? Would you want to be responsible for hundreds of your cousins being hunted down and forced to live that way?”

  In a quavering voice Gillian had given him the answer he wanted. And then he’d drawn the moral: “Never let them suspect what you are.”

  And now, reflected Gillian as she maintained her steady trot, Professor Greer knew there was something strange about her. He didn’t merely have cause for suspicion; he had seen her change. She had broken one of the most vital rules. She couldn’t begin to guess how Dr. Volnar would punish her if she went back to him. So she didn’t dare go back, not for a long time. Her father, at least, would understand. Maybe.

  After a while the rain stopped. Her energy was fading again. Wearing only the remains of a blouse, she found the night chilly and wished for her jacket, which she’d left in Greer’s van. Along with the backpack containing extra clothes and everything else she’d paused to grab on her way out of the hotel in Atlanta. She fingered her one remaining asset, the delicate gold cross that hung around her neck. That was worth money, she knew, but she had no idea where to sell jewelry. She wasted little thought on her losses. More important at the moment, she needed food.

  Slowing to a walk, she tiptoed soundlessly among the trees, listening and sniffing the air. The wet soil and plants carried odors well. Within a few minutes she scented a rabbit crouched under an evergreen bush. Squatting a few feet away, Gillian focused on the motionless animal. The healthy glow of its aura made her mouth water. Still as a stone herself, with one hand outstretched, she silently called to the rabbit. This talent she had possessed for several years. Unlike her new sensitivity to human emotions, her link with animals didn’t overwhelm her and shatter her control.

  The rabbit inched from beneath the tangled branches and gave a tentative hop in her direction. Gillian held her breath. She mustn’t make a hasty move and scare the creature away. It hopped closer. She encouraged it with a soothing hum. One more hop and it hunched within reach of her hand. She stroked the rough fur on its back until the rabbit’s racing heartbeat calmed. Picking it up, she cradled the animal in her arms, exposing the nearly hairless belly.

  Its body heat was balm to her cold, aching limbs. With a sigh of relief she sat down against a tree and pressed her mouth to the rabbit’s abdomen. The razor-sharp edge of her incisors opened a minute slit in the skin, and she sucked avidly. Her prey sank into sleep, coma, and finally death without the slightest spasm of pain.

  Gently laying aside the drained body, she resumed walking. Soon dawn would force her to seek shelter. She couldn’t travel any farther without a good day’s rest. About an hour later, she came upon a dense thicket of pines tainted by no lingering scent of human intrusion. From the map she’d consulted, she knew this area must be part of a national forest. The trees would screen her from the view of low-flying light aircraft as well as from the sun. With luck nobody would stumble across her hiding place while she slept.

  She nestled into a pile of sodden leaves, grumbling at the chill and dampness. All the other times she’d spent the day outside, the excursions had been planned. Volnar had provided her with a sleeping bag and pup tent. How she longed for those amenities now! Tired as she was, though, discomfort couldn’t keep her awake for long. Nor could the worries that revolved endlessly in her head. Would her father accept her at least temporarily, or try to send her back to Volnar? She knew her father hadn’t wanted a child. He’d been pressured into begetting Gillian. Half-human himself, he had bequeathed human genes to her, traits that made her incomplete, defective—or so she’d heard it whispered for most of her life. On the other hand, human fathers, unlike males among Gillian’s mother’s people, were supposed to care for their children. Why hadn’t Gillian’s father defied Volnar’s rules to contact her at least occasionally?

  She dimly remembered her one visit to Annapolis, sometime in her third year. At that time she’d still been living with her mother, Juliette, who had thought Gillian’s father was entitled to a glimpse of the
baby he’d sired. During the brief meeting her father had shown polite interest, nothing more. Gillian wondered if this quest would prove a waste of time, if she ought to go straight to Juliette instead. No, Volnar would look there first. Juliette was visiting her literary agent in New York, and Volnar had been taking Gillian there for her semiannual visit with her mother when Gillian had decided to run away. Juliette, who approved of Dr. Volnar’s teaching methods, would certainly send Gillian right back to him.

  There was at least a chance, Gillian thought, that her father would resist turning her over to Volnar. According to rumor, the two didn’t get along well. Comforting herself with that prospect, she yielded to sleep.

  GILLIAN AWOKE LITTLE more refreshed than when she’d lain down. She decided sleeping on the bare ground didn’t suit her, though she’d heard some of her older acquaintances claim they enjoyed roughing it. Did her distaste for this adventure mean she was flawed by human weakness? Or just sensible?

  After catching a squirrel for her evening meal, she resumed her easy lope northward. The closer she got to Washington, the harder it became to avoid people. The constant detours, she knew, wasted time. At this rate she couldn’t hope to reach Annapolis under her own power any time reasonably soon. And the longer she stayed on the run, the more likely Volnar would track her down. How, she wasn’t sure, but her years with him had taught her to regard her mentor as almost supernaturally powerful.

  No choice—she had to risk hitchhiking again.

  If not for her torn blouse, she wouldn’t have to worry so much about attracting attention. Following the distant sound of traffic, she crept through the woods to the nearest highway. She lay on her stomach on a hillside overlooking I-95 and noted the nearby exit leading to a town. There she might somehow manage to pick up a coat to make her look more suitably dressed for the season.

  She made her way down the hill and walked parallel to the side road, careful not to get close enough to be clearly seen by passing drivers. Guided by a scattering of lights, she found her way to a residential suburb of split-level houses and sparse traffic. She hunkered down behind a Dumpster next to a school playground, cogitating over her next move.

  In the adventure novels she’d read, runaways and tramps often stole garments off clotheslines. In a neighborhood like this, Gillian knew, people seldom hung laundry outside and certainly not in the winter. The thin layer of snow under her jeans reminded her that she needed a coat for more than appearances. While the cold couldn’t harm her, she didn’t find it comfortable. She’d have to break into a house.

  She catfooted along the street, keeping away from the street lamps. It didn’t take her long to find a house with no lights on. She edged over to one of the back windows. Crouching beneath it, she listened. No sound of breathing in the nearest rooms. Gillian stood up and tried the window, pleased that it opened by pushing up, not sideways like some others she’d seen. Locked.

  Bracing her legs, she shoved upward with all her strength. The lock broke. At the same time the frame she was pushing on cracked, as did the windowpane inside it. Gillian froze, ears perked. No sound of hurrying feet from either of the next-door houses. The noise of splintering wood must not have been so loud as she’d imagined.

  She eased the damaged window open and scrambled inside. She emerged in a musty-smelling bedroom cluttered with several pairs of inside-out jeans and socks. A T-shirt bearing a picture of a dragon lay on the bed. A teenage boy’s room, probably, though she knew from fashion ads that one couldn’t always judge accurately by clothes.

  The barking of a dog interrupted her thoughts. She smelled the animal and heard the click of its claws in the hall. Gillian looked frantically around the room. She’d rather find what she needed here than have to stun or kill the dog while exploring the house. Now the dog was growling outside the bedroom door, fortunately shut. Gillian opened the closet. On the floor a light gray jacket lay crumpled. Excellent!

  She snatched it up, put it on, and zipped it. Slightly large for her, the jacket covered her from neck to hips, hiding the worst traces of her rough night. She surveyed herself in the mirror on the inside of the bedroom door. Not bad, except for the dirt smudges on her face. If only she could get to the bathroom and wash up, but that luxury wouldn’t be worth leaving a dead or wounded pet as evidence.

  The dog’s growling rose to a crescendo of frustration. Gillian climbed out the window the way she’d arrived and glided across the back yard. Within ten minutes she stood next to the freeway on-ramp, gesturing with her thumb as she’d seen people do in movies.

  This time a trailer truck stopped for her. The driver, a husky black man, gave Gillian the same kind of dubious look Professor Greer had given her. “I’m not supposed to pick up no riders, but what the hell, you look like you really need help. Get in!”

  She did, muttering her thanks. The truck’s cab smelled like stale cigarette smoke.

  Gunning the motor, the man said, “Didn’t anybody ever tell you it’s not safe for little girls on the road?”

  “Yes,” she said flatly. The less she spoke to him, the less risk of making another disastrous error.

  Shortly he asked, “Where you headed?”

  “Annapolis.”

  “Well, I got a schedule to keep, so I’ll have to drop you off in D.C.”

  “That’s fine. Thank you very much.” Now the man was lighting a cigarette, whose smoke made her stomach clench with nausea. She gritted her teeth, fighting the queasiness.

  After a few more unsuccessful attempts to start a conversation, the driver gave up and switched on a cassette tape of a man bewailing the treachery of his lover—as far as Gillian could make out from the few words she could distinguish. She knew so little of the way people lived. Why had she ever imagined she could get along on her own? Volnar had warned her that soap operas and the accompanying commercials, while they could give her a feel for some aspects of everyday life, were not a totally reliable guide to the outside world. Soap opera—she’d always thought that was a strange phrase, for the actors in those dramas didn’t sing their lines, as in Das Rheingold or La Traviata, and the dialogue seldom mentioned soap.

  Against her will her mind flew back to the last time she’d watched a drama with singing. Night before last, in Atlanta, her first experience of live theater. Volnar had arranged a twenty-four hour layover between flights, during which he took her to a performance of Camelot. Gillian had never imagined how intense the experience would be, compared to the videotape of the same play.

  The story line made little sense to her. All that fuss over a man and woman mating! Why couldn’t Guinevere share her favors equally with both Arthur and Lancelot? But then, Gillian understood almost nothing about human mating customs. It wasn’t the play that upset her, but the audience’s reaction. Caught up in the music, the crowd made her feel as if she was swimming in a river whose current overwhelmed her strength, its foaming rapids sweeping her helplessly toward the edge of a waterfall, the water crashing over her head until she felt near drowning.

  And the theater overloaded her outer senses as well as her fresh, raw psychic vision. Perfume, sweat, damp wool, and smoke-impregnated fabric made her stomach churn. The music swelled inside her head as recorded sound never had. The stage lighting dazzled her eyes, but paled beneath the scintillation of the hundreds of living auras around her. Her infrared vision had always allowed her to see the halo of heat radiated by animals, from human beings down to insects. She’d imagined the direct perception of the aura to be similar. She had not expected to see each person surrounded by a corona of rainbow light that pulsed with every shifting nuance of delight, fear, or sadness.

  She tried closing her eyes. That retreat only left her inner senses exposed to the full force of the spectators’ unbarriered emotions. Like being crushed by an avalanche—

  She fled to the lobby, tripping over people’s laps in her rush to escape. Volnar had followed her at a sedate pace and led her outside. Even the lights and traffic of a downtown stree
t had seemed restful by contrast.

  “I see I’ve misjudged the speed of your development,” he’d said, supporting her with a firm, impersonal grip on her elbow. “I intended gradually introducing you to human society before you reached this phase. It’s too late for that.” Back at the hotel, he had announced his intention to initiate her—the very next evening at sunset, before catching the flight to New York.

  During the day while he slept, she had sneaked out.

  What would Volnar do when he caught up with her? Would her father be able to protect her? Would he even want to?

  Don’t think about that now. Think about getting from Washington to Annapolis.

  Gillian shrank from the thought of hitching another ride. She’d prefer to take a bus the rest of the way. Where could she get the money? Again she clutched her gold cross and thought about selling it. But she didn’t want to attract attention by asking strangers where such transactions could be accomplished.

  Besides, she liked the trinket and didn’t want to give it up, even though she’d received it as a present from Volnar.

  Sentimental, human thinking. That was probably what some of the elders who disapproved of Gillian’s very existence would say. They constantly hinted at latent human weaknesses that would mar her character and endanger the race. She’d heard such whispers often enough, though Volnar tried to shield her from them.

  I’m not human! If I were, people like this truck driver wouldn’t think I’m so strange. She cringed from the pressure of his curiosity, almost as stifling as the cigarette smoke.

  When he exited the freeway and drove into the parking lot of a fast food restaurant on the edge of downtown Washington, Gillian was surprised to notice that the truck’s dashboard clock showed only a little after eight. The uncomfortable ride seemed to have dragged on for half the night.

  Swinging his door open, the driver said, “Buy you a snack, honey?”

  Gillian thanked him as she climbed down from the cab. She swallowed the impulse to protest that honey. In the programs she’d watched, that term was used for either very small children or someone with whom the speaker wanted to initiate a sexual union. The word felt inappropriate in this casual context. The last thing she wanted, though, was to fix the driver’s attention on her by starting an argument. She simply wanted to slip away from him.