The Green Memory of Fear. B. A. Chepaitis

little girl shifted from one foot to the other. She wasn’t sure which was worse—when he was nice to her, or when he was angry. At least when he was angry she knew to stay away. When he was nice she didn’t know what to expect. “Can I go?” she asked.

      “No,” he said. “There’s more for you to do. Come here.”

      He crooked a finger at her, drawing her toward the deep upholstered chair he sat in next to the fire. Of all his houses, she liked this one best. It had a fireplace, and she liked fire. When he wasn’t around, she’d burn things in it, watching flames lick at old books, at paper, at his shirts. Everything burned different, she learned. Each burning had its own look, its own smell and feel.

      Often he left the children alone, either here or at his house in New York. Sometimes she’d be in charge, and sometimes Peter would. She didn’t like that much. Peter was bossy. The oldest of the children and almost ready to transform, he liked to pretend he was Dr. Senci. If he got too bossy she’d kick him or gouge at his eyes, but he was bigger and hard to beat. Still, he was better than Dr. Senci, who never left her alone.

      She approached his chair slowly, reluctantly. When she was within reach he grabbed her by the neck, pulled her between his legs and held her pinioned.

      “You will be my eyes and ears. My little angel. You will draw her to us,” he crooned.

      “Leggo,” she said, pushing against him.

      “Not yet,” he said. “This is very important, and you must listen. Unless—perhaps you’ve changed your mind and you don’t want a mother?”

      She was still. He’d had her for three years and it took two of them for him to find her pressure point. She did not respond to violence or bribes, but one night he caught her mooning over one of her storybooks about princesses and fairy godmothers, and found out that more than anything, she wanted a mother. Not like her own mother, who sold her to him for a dose of latrinol. She wanted a real mother.

      “Do you want a mother, angel?” he asked.

      “Don’t call me that,” she said. “I don’t like it.”

      “I wouldn’t, if you’d tell me what your name is,” he said.

      She shook her head. Nobody knew her name. Nobody was going to, either, except maybe her real mother. He relaxed his legs, and she slipped out from between them, backed up quickly and stood just outside of his reach.

      “Come back here, my angel,” he cajoled.

      She stamped a small foot on the carpet. “Don’t call me that. I can’t be an angel because I’m not dead.”

      Dr. Senci didn’t laugh. He never laughed at her unless he had her pinned down so that she couldn’t bite or scratch because she’d do both. She was the youngest of his pack, and the most fierce. If she lived to adulthood she might become an interesting companion, or perhaps a good feed. Right now, she was a powerful and ill-tempered brat, very gifted in the empathic arts, but with no direction in her use of them.

      “Keep this up, and you will be. I’ll take you back to Manhattan and leave you there for the rats to eat.”

      She lifted her leg and kicked him hard, and when he reached for her, she bared her teeth to bite. He got hold of her wrists with one hand and dangled her in the air away from him while she wiggled and screeched. He dropped her and twisted her wrist.

      You’ll do what I say, or you’ll die.

      Suddenly, she ceased struggling. Leaned back on her haunches and relaxed.

      “I’m tired,” she whined. “I don’t want to.”

      Something like a sob caught in her throat. Dr. Senci brought his hand back and slapped her hard. She fell flat onto her back and lay there, water welling up in her eyes. That wasn’t good. Both the chemical combination of salt water and the specific energy in the emotion of sorrow were physically painful to him and he tolerated no pain. No interference with his pleasure.

      No crying. Don’t play with me or I’ll fuck you until you’re dead.

      Her face tightened into stillness.

      “Get up,” he said out loud. “And come over here.”

      She rubbed at her cheek and did as she was told in sullen silence.

      He pulled her into his lap. “If you want a mother, you must do this, tired or not. I’ll help you get ready.” He held her shoulders and felt her sigh as she settled into the work at hand.

      He’d never taught her how to leave her body. She already knew how, and used it to escape him the first time he tried to sex her. Just as he was ready to take her she went flying out from herself and across the room. When he grabbed for her she threatened to go out the window and into a flock of white birds that flew overhead.

      Pigeons. She would fly with pigeons rather than be with him. He found that insulting, considering the situation he’d rescued her from—a wastrel child with no future, living with her addict mother and a group of dying druggies. When he bought her she was filthy and malnourished, but good food and adequate shelter soon brought her back to health and a bounding energy. Then the ungrateful wretch left her body every time he tried to sex her. Finally he decided to use her skills in ways that suited him.

      She became his messenger. His little angel. He taught her how to direct her travels over greater distances, and now she could appear as a ghostlike figure wherever he sent her. If all went as he planned she’d help bring him the woman they both sought, but she made such a fuss about it he’d almost made up his mind to kill her once she’d gotten him what he wanted. She had limited usefulness, and apparently unlimited trouble in her.

      Sometimes he killed the children at the moment they expected to be transformed, slashing their throats and letting their blood pour into his hands before he fed. He’d make the other children watch. It increased their respect and let him drink their fear, allowing him to experience the terror of death the only way he could—vicariously.

      Perhaps this little girl who bit would give him that thrill someday. Now she had work to do for him. He pressed a hand against her forehead, felt her readiness to begin.

      “There, my little angel,” he said. “Go out and play. The Jaguar is waiting to see you.”