The Academy (57 page)

“Yes.”

“And—after that, she negotiated your own contract in front of you?”

“Yes.”

Michael leaned forward, his face searching. “And you’re not—angry with her?”

“No.” Chris said that firmly, with such complete conviction that Michael sat up straight again. “And you shouldn’t be angry on my behalf. For one, I deserved every blow, and much worse—and two, it’s none of your business.”

“But it is my business,” Michael said mournfully. “You’re my trainer! What’s going to happen to me now?”

“That will be up to Anderson,” Chris said. “You came to be under her training, not mine. She may leave you at the house on Long Island, or pick another trainer to take over your first year. In any event, we would have parted in six months or so, when I arranged for your sale. You may in fact benefit by being exposed to a different style of training, so look at this as an opportunity.”

Michael nodded glumly, and Chris struggled with what to say to him. What would be useful to say to him, now that Anderson’s predictions were ringing in his head.

“You’ve made some great improvements,” he said cautiously. “Even in these past few days. I’m very pleased with your progress, and I can send you back home with full confidence that you will apply yourself to your studies. You chose a difficult and rare path to service, Michael LaGuardia. Most don’t even consider taking it. And—I am not unaware that part of your inspiration was, I believe, my own journey. I am honored by such thoughts, and I want you to know that before we part.”

“Thank you, sir,” Michael said, a little bit of pride creeping into his sapphire eyes. “Can I still call you ‘sir?’”

“As long as you feel it is appropriate or you are told otherwise,” Chris said. “Come on, let’s go have that drink.”

* * * *

Tetsuo had sent over a fancy bottle of Jack Daniel’s, and knowing the import taxes on American liquor, Anderson laughed out loud, thinking of his confidence, or no, his chutzpah. She stripped open the seal and pulled out the cork and poured herself two fingers in a glass and toasted her new brother in the general direction of the East before sitting down with the first draft of their contract changes. She made a few marks, initialed it, and then sent it back with the waiting slave. They could do the signing after dinner, or wait until morning.
It would be best tonight,
she thought.
Give Chris his first night with his new lord here, it’s such a honeymoon place as it is.
Maybe Tetsuo would want to make a splash, take Chris in his new collar to a party somewhere.

Or, make him wait until morning, just for my sadistic pleasure. Tell him to accompany me to some private gathering—maybe Geoff Negel’s. Hell, loan him to Negel. She laughed and shook her head—no, her sadism did have some limits, and so did her masochism. No matter how unbearable such a thing might be for Chris, merely setting it up would be pushing it for her. Watching whatever transpired would be positively painful.

No, better to just keep him isolated, where he couldn’t retreat into high formal manners and suffering for her pleasure. Call him to this room, get him out of his pretentious Japanese room, away from the adoring eyes of poor Michael. And on the carpeted floor at the foot of my bed, the way he wished to be for so many years. Let him squirm as he contemplates leaving me. The only question would be if that would be a reward, or just another torture. Both, most likely. Emotional masochists were the most infuriating toys to play with. Pay attention to them, leave them alone—either way, they love it and hate it and come back for more.

She paced around the room, gazing out at the garden view with the glass in her had. She didn’t like it. It was too hot, too colorful, too unpredictable. And there were far too many people here, too, dinner would be an ordeal. Oh, she liked most of them, loved to spend time with them. But not so many at once. Just leave me alone and let me do what I do, she had said once, many years ago. And because of how she did it, they generally let her—as long as she always had a trainer in training, someone who could communicate for her with them. Someone who would carry on her traditions, or at least teach parts of them.

It was fun to improve slaves. But it was a challenge to make trainers.

I
’ve just sold my most fun challenge,
she thought. She finished the drink and picked a new outfit for herself and changed for dinner. As she slipped on her shoes, the skies outside opened up, and the long-threatened thunderstorm began.

8AM

Thunder crashed outside as she stepped off the bottom stair into her hallway to face the caller Vicente had announced. Imala Anderson’s first thought upon seeing her visitor was “who drowned this feral kitten?” The youth was in fact soaking wet, a sodden Mets baseball cap barely having kept the downpour from showering the aviator style glasses that were already slightly fogged from the heat inside the house. Her visitor was wearing a worn leather jacket with a large, jagged but mended tear across one side panel. Instantly, Anderson knew it had been rescued from the trash, and as her eyes scanned the visitor from head to toes, she knew that this was a person in need of help.

“Come inside,” she said, showing the way into the front parlor. It was safe, Vicente had taken her latest client upstairs. In fact, she could hear his steps coming down now, and when she twisted slightly, a towel was pressed into her hand. She passed it to her young visitor and folded her arms, many copper bracelets jangling on her left wrist. Vicente went back to his reserve, the kitchen, leaving them alone.

“You wanted to speak to me?”

“Yes, ma’am.” The visitor’s voice was low pitched, a little hoarse, like the voice of someone recovering from a long chest cold. Or someone who had done a lot of screaming lately. Little attempt had been made to actually use the towel, other than to wipe the glasses off, and they were quickly returned to their place on the small nose. Droplets from the long, dark curly hair continued to run in rivulets down the jacket sleeves and Imala finally figured out why she had even invited this youth in.

So many boys were wearing their hair long like this now—hell, they were blow-drying lengthy locks just like the girls of a similar age were doing. But even when the visitor looked back up and straightened, it was difficult to really tell exactly what this young person’s gender was.
How delightful this new age is for old perverts like me
, she thought with a slight twinge of pleasure. But that didn’t excuse the danger she was in.

“What do you want?” she asked firmly.

“I want to be your slave.”

Imala dropped her arms in shock.
Well, I’ve heard that one before,
she thought, her mind still delighted at this remarkable turn of affairs.
But never from a—a—child
. Because whether this one was a boy or a girl, there was unmistakable softness in the facial features, a certain awkwardness in the halting body movements, that gentle lilt of innocence in the voice.

“What is your name? Who sent you? And how old are you?”

The stranger hesitated, as if trying to draw courage, and Imala snapped, “Don’t even think of lying to me!”

There was a barely discernible relaxation of the shoulders and a slight sigh of resignation, and then the figure in the soaked jacket and polished boots reached into an inner pocket and removed a wallet. Imala took hold of the proffered learner’s permit and High School identity card, and shook her head. “Well...Chris. That leaves one more question—who sent you?”

The visitor shook that wet head slowly and said, “I can’t tell you that... I swore I wouldn’t.”

“Hmph. Some slave you’d be, if you can’t even answer a question truthfully.”

The glasses tilted up, and Imala noted the flash of anger that was struggled with and controlled. Her heart quickened despite the now nearly overwhelming awareness of danger, and she handed the forms of ID back.

“Are you—compelling me to obedience?” The voice was charmingly hopeful.

What a formal way to ask the question. Anderson frowned—it was a training phrase that no teenager should have been able to come up with on their own. “Why do you ask?” she replied, trying to think of who could have possibly spoken those words to a child.

“If you will take me on—I’ll be a novice, I know. But I’ll prove myself, I promise—then I will answer all your questions honestly and instantly.”

There was a desperate earnest tone now, one that Anderson was far more familiar with. She left the mystery to itself and shook her head.

“You come back to me in seven months and eight days, and maybe I’ll ask again. If you don’t answer then, we’ll have nothing to say to each other. Because right now, there is nothing I can do for you, and you have to leave.”

The towel was tortured, wrung between those small hands until it became a twisted strand of cotton rope. “Please,” came a strangled sound between those soft lips. “I swear. I’ve had experience. I’ve been tested—”

“I don’t even want to hear about that,” Imala said quickly. “You’re a minor, do you understand that? Anyone who does anything with you outside of backseat gymnastics is endangering you and themselves. If you tell me anything about where you’ve been or what you’ve been doing, I will contact child welfare services.”

“Don’t you think I’ve been there already?” came the sharp reply. Imala sighed—this was just an arrogant teenager after all, she could just push this one out the door. She lifted one hand to do just that, and then heard her visitor continue, saying “They wanted to put me in an institution and ‘cure’ me.”

Anderson didn’t push. She ran a finger along one of her heavier bracelets and spun it on her wrist. Damn.

“Nevertheless,” she said gently. “I won’t call anyone. I can try to find you someplace to stay, if you need it. But you can’t stay here. I’m endangering my position just by speaking to you. Seven months.”

“And eight days,” the visitor added, sarcasm, bitterness, and grief commingled in every syllable.

“Compose yourself with patience,” Imala said automatically. “I don’t keep slaves, I train them. I know best when to examine and when to accept new trainees, and I accept them only rarely. You are too young, you don’t have the necessary life experience to get one step beyond where you are right now. You will be ready only when I say you are.” Oddly, this seemed to produce a new and more promising reaction, as the stranger let loose that terrible grip on the towel and nodded.

“I’ll be back,” the young visitor said, handing the towel back.

“And we’ll speak about all sorts of things—if you’re ready,” Anderson said. She opened the door and picked an umbrella out of the ceramic vase in the hall. “Please return this when you come back.”

The stranger took it hesitantly and for a moment, Imala was sure that she was going to have to deal with a hysterical teenager sobbing on her shoulder. But instead, the stranger’s face seemed to tighten in reserve. “Thank you,” Chris said, turning to walk down the steps. Imala watched through the open door until the figure turned up the block to head for the subway station.

Vicente came up behind her again and took the towel back.

“That one was trouble,” Imala sighed, closing the door against the rain.

“Oh yes, he is,” Vicente agreed.

“She,” Imala said absently. “It’s those clothes, the hair, it’s so hard to tell boys and girls apart these days.”

Vicente chuckled and switched to Portuguese, as he did whenever the topic changed to subjects his English just wasn’t capable of handling with grace. “You of all people know that clothing has nothing to do with what a person is inside.”

She looked at him and shook her head, pleased that he was so completely wrong. “I tell you, that was a girl,” she said.

He waved one hand dismissively. “You’re de boss,” he said in English, grinning. “But you are correct about one thing—that one, he is trouble.”

“Just a kid,” she murmured, walking into the warmth of her front office.

“But hungry, Imala. Very very hungry.”

Anderson didn’t answer. Instead, she sat down in her favorite chair and pulled her calendar to her. She noted the date and then flipped through the pages until she found the date seven months and eight days away. She circled the day and wrote in her neat, small hand, “Chris Parker.”

9AM

On that day, Anderson had made sure she had no time-consuming appointments. She was genuinely intrigued with the possibilities her visitor offered, and aching to hear the answer to the question which had not been answered. Who would dare send a minor to her—a novice is one thing, but a child? Never mind that Imala herself had known as a child, that she had known literally hundreds of people who would have signed over their bodies and souls at an age when their contemporaries were collecting tokens from cereal boxes. Never mind that she knew she had consigned that bedraggled little sodden creature to a world that was not short on people who would delight in such a hungry and willing partner or victim. She had wondered about her visitor several times, both impressed and worried that she had indeed not heard another word from that quarter.

But the day had come, and she and Vicente were sharing a bagel over some fairly inconsequential paperwork when the familiar sound of the mail falling into the hallway came. Neither of them moved. In less than a minute, Emily came in with it on a tray, silent and elegant. She placed the various pieces where they belonged, her presence as unassuming as it could be, considering she was absolutely nude. Anderson noticed the change as Emily examined one envelope just a fraction of a second longer than it usually took for her to diagnose. When Emily slipped it back onto the tray, Anderson instantly knew what it was.

She picked it up by the edges, and examined the handwriting critically. It slanted a little too much—the product of contemporary grade school. But it wasn’t scrawled—it was clean and each line was fairly straight. There was no postage on it—it had somehow been hand delivered along with the mail. Clever.

She slit it open with the long silver knife and pulled out the folded card inside. It was good paper—not exactly what she would have imagined that ragamuffin had access to. Not a commercial card, but something from a quality stationery set, embossed with a silver gray rose, pale enough so that you had to angle it toward the light to see the whole thing. Had the rose been pink, it would have been too frivolous. As it was, it seemed vaguely romantic but not pushy. She opened it, pleased that she had no idea what it would say.