§ § § -- October 29, 1983
Leslie could actually feel all the blood drain from her face at the realization that she had lost the coin toss. Her shocked gaze met that of Roarke, who looked dismayingly unperturbed. She felt as though she were trapped in a bad dream, with Lawrence's serenely triumphant gaze on her and Roarke solemnly approaching her with a vial of the cat potion.
"But..." Leslie floundered for some kind of protest and finally came out with, "But I don't want to be a cat!"
"Too late, my dear," chuckled Lawrence.
"You be quiet," she yelled at him, rattled as much by the fact that there seemed to be a latent streak of sadism in him as by the situation as a whole. "Just because you won the stupid coin toss and you don't have to go through this freaky experiment for the sake of some crazy rich guy -- "
Roarke finally seemed to take pity on her and dropped a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "Lawrence, I think you have said quite enough," he observed. Lawrence abruptly shut up, giving Leslie the cold comfort of seeing him properly subdued. Roarke then turned to Leslie. "I promise you, my daughter, this will not go unappreciated," he said. "Here, now, drink it quickly, all at once."
Mutinously she compressed her lips, staring distrustfully at Roarke from under her bangs. "What do I get out of this?" she wanted to know.
Roarke sighed in exasperation. "You're stalling, Leslie Susan, and you know it. Take the vial."
Lawrence actually uttered the phrase "Tut tut," adding, "I had no idea you could be so greedy, miss."
Leslie ignored him only with enormous effort, keeping her gaze fixed firmly on Roarke. "Look, you already told us that you couldn't pay anyone else any amount of money to do this. If you're really going to make it worth my while, I'd like to know what my reward is now, in case I wind up being a cat forever."
"You will not be a cat forever, my dear Leslie, and well you know it," Roarke said flatly, the tone of his voice indicating that he was running out of patience. Once more he offered the vial. "I will not put up with any more delaying tactics on your part. Drink it, right now."
Sensing she had reached Roarke's limit, Leslie reluctantly accepted the vial and studied its contents dubiously. After a moment she looked at Roarke with renewed horror. "It looks like mud," she said.
"I realize that," Roarke said, his manner softening somewhat. "An unfortunate side effect of the combinations I was forced...uh, obligated to use. However, I added something that should give it the taste of chocolate."
"Should?" Leslie repeated, swallowing hard. "And suppose it doesn't? Gosh, Mr. Roarke, I don't think I can do this. I really don't think I could force myself to..." Her voice trailed off at the look of desperation that tinged Roarke's features. It affected her despite herself.
Then Lawrence said wickedly, "Would you care for some assistance, miss?"
This time they both glared at him, Roarke with strong disapproval and Leslie ready to strangle him. "Lawrence, please control yourself," Roarke requested in exasperation. The Englishman composed himself with an effort and murmured something in apology, and Roarke turned back to Leslie.
"Imagine the stories you will have to tell your grandchildren someday," he said with a weak smile. Leslie rolled her eyes, and Roarke sighed again, playing his trump card. "Leslie, please."
Leslie had never seen such a lost-little-boy expression on anyone, and as out of place as it looked on Roarke, she succumbed to it. "Oh, all right," she grumbled at last, "but if I throw up, you'd better not blame me." So saying, she took a deep breath and held it, pinched her nose shut to help dull the flavor that Roarke claimed was chocolate but she suspected was far from it, closed her eyes and leaned back from the waist up, tipping the vial completely upside down to drain the entire dose in one huge gulp.
She never did remember whether it actually tasted like chocolate or not, because she had time only to let out the breath she'd been holding before she froze in place like a marble statue. Her eyes popped to the size of golf balls, and then she collapsed in an unconscious heap. Roarke bent in alarm and began to reach for her, but abruptly drew back when Leslie became instantaneously enshrouded in thick smoke the color of the potion. The two men heard a small, very peculiar popping noise, then a loud hiss. The smoke cleared, and there on the floor was a badly frightened Siamese cat.
For once Lawrence's expression matched his actual feelings. "My God, sir, it worked!" he breathed.
"So it did," murmured Roarke, himself more than a little astonished. Slowly he stretched one hand out to the hissing feline. "Easy, child, it's only me," he said soothingly.
"Here, kitty, kitty," Lawrence contributed and put out a hand. The cat drew back, ears flattened and claws unsheathed, its blue eyes huge with terror. Lawrence took a step, and that was too much for the cat. It fled like a shot, streaking up the stairs and out of sight.
"Leslie, stop!" Roarke shouted, and he and Lawrence rushed up in hot pursuit. Needless to say, the cat was far too fast for them and, by the time they reached the study, had vanished.
"Oh no, sir. The French doors are wide open," Lawrence groaned. A flicker of light cast momentary shadows in the room and both men went to the open doors to see where it had come from. Their answer came about thirty seconds later when they heard a rumble of thunder in the distance.
Roarke closed his eyes. "I was afraid something like this might happen," he murmured, half to himself.
Lawrence straightened to his full height and regarded Roarke sympathetically. "You aren't to blame, sir," he said. "You needed to test the potion on someone, after all. Otherwise, how could you be certain that our future guest would have a satisfactory experience during his stay here?"
"I suggest," Roarke said, annoyed, "that you consider the problem we now face, Lawrence. It's preparing to storm, and Leslie is frightened of thunderstorms. I don't doubt for a moment that this fear has survived her transition into feline form; and since she has fled the house and is out in the open, she will very likely panic. By the time she grows weary enough to stop running, she could be miles from here and caught in the midst of the storm. And in the jungle, she will be all but impossible to find."
Lawrence cleared his throat in embarrassment and actually hung his head. "I'm very sorry, sir," he said. "As a matter of fact, I am usually not so vindictive. I'm afraid the worst of me came out due to my relief at having won the coin toss."
"Indeed," was all Roarke said to that. "Well, there is no help for it. We will have to put together a search party and try to find Leslie. Please drive to Julie's house and ask her and Frida to come back with you, and I will make some phone calls." He found himself wishing this had happened two months ago, before most of Leslie's friends had left for college elsewhere. The only one left was Maureen Tomai, and he promptly called her house and spoke with her parents for a few minutes. They volunteered to bring Maureen over and join in the search.
§ § §
If there was anything left of the human Leslie within the mind of the cat she had become, it wasn't apparent from the outside. She tore through the tropical foliage, veering in some random direction every time lightning flared, flushing out any number of assorted small animals as she went. She ran and ran until an owl, out prowling, dive-bombed her in a royal fury and scared her straight up a palm tree, where she knocked down a coconut and sent a loudly indignant parrot into flight for a more private sanctuary.
The palm tree was one of countless dozens that grew like oversized weeds all over Fantasy Island; and this one gave her a better view of the storm than she liked, either as human or cat. The wind had picked up and sheet lightning illuminated the jungle; occasionally a multi-forked bolt would stab through the air and set off a crack of thunder that wrung yowls of terror from the Siamese. Some instinct, whether human or feline, told the little beast that a tree wasn't the best place to be in a thunderstorm; but she was almost as scared of trying to climb down as she was of the storm. So she clung in place, claws sunk deeply into the trunk, swaying with the tree in the rising wind.
The same owl returned unexpectedly and zoomed straight for her, yellow eyes gleaming maliciously with every burst of lightning. The bird caught the cat completely by surprise and shocked the feline into loosing her precarious grip on the palm tree. Down she plummeted, twisting her body instinctively to land on her feet; but it was a longer way down than she had thought, and the ground was coming up far too fast.
Leslie could actually feel all the blood drain from her face at the realization that she had lost the coin toss. Her shocked gaze met that of Roarke, who looked dismayingly unperturbed. She felt as though she were trapped in a bad dream, with Lawrence's serenely triumphant gaze on her and Roarke solemnly approaching her with a vial of the cat potion.
"But..." Leslie floundered for some kind of protest and finally came out with, "But I don't want to be a cat!"
"Too late, my dear," chuckled Lawrence.
"You be quiet," she yelled at him, rattled as much by the fact that there seemed to be a latent streak of sadism in him as by the situation as a whole. "Just because you won the stupid coin toss and you don't have to go through this freaky experiment for the sake of some crazy rich guy -- "
Roarke finally seemed to take pity on her and dropped a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "Lawrence, I think you have said quite enough," he observed. Lawrence abruptly shut up, giving Leslie the cold comfort of seeing him properly subdued. Roarke then turned to Leslie. "I promise you, my daughter, this will not go unappreciated," he said. "Here, now, drink it quickly, all at once."
Mutinously she compressed her lips, staring distrustfully at Roarke from under her bangs. "What do I get out of this?" she wanted to know.
Roarke sighed in exasperation. "You're stalling, Leslie Susan, and you know it. Take the vial."
Lawrence actually uttered the phrase "Tut tut," adding, "I had no idea you could be so greedy, miss."
Leslie ignored him only with enormous effort, keeping her gaze fixed firmly on Roarke. "Look, you already told us that you couldn't pay anyone else any amount of money to do this. If you're really going to make it worth my while, I'd like to know what my reward is now, in case I wind up being a cat forever."
"You will not be a cat forever, my dear Leslie, and well you know it," Roarke said flatly, the tone of his voice indicating that he was running out of patience. Once more he offered the vial. "I will not put up with any more delaying tactics on your part. Drink it, right now."
Sensing she had reached Roarke's limit, Leslie reluctantly accepted the vial and studied its contents dubiously. After a moment she looked at Roarke with renewed horror. "It looks like mud," she said.
"I realize that," Roarke said, his manner softening somewhat. "An unfortunate side effect of the combinations I was forced...uh, obligated to use. However, I added something that should give it the taste of chocolate."
"Should?" Leslie repeated, swallowing hard. "And suppose it doesn't? Gosh, Mr. Roarke, I don't think I can do this. I really don't think I could force myself to..." Her voice trailed off at the look of desperation that tinged Roarke's features. It affected her despite herself.
Then Lawrence said wickedly, "Would you care for some assistance, miss?"
This time they both glared at him, Roarke with strong disapproval and Leslie ready to strangle him. "Lawrence, please control yourself," Roarke requested in exasperation. The Englishman composed himself with an effort and murmured something in apology, and Roarke turned back to Leslie.
"Imagine the stories you will have to tell your grandchildren someday," he said with a weak smile. Leslie rolled her eyes, and Roarke sighed again, playing his trump card. "Leslie, please."
Leslie had never seen such a lost-little-boy expression on anyone, and as out of place as it looked on Roarke, she succumbed to it. "Oh, all right," she grumbled at last, "but if I throw up, you'd better not blame me." So saying, she took a deep breath and held it, pinched her nose shut to help dull the flavor that Roarke claimed was chocolate but she suspected was far from it, closed her eyes and leaned back from the waist up, tipping the vial completely upside down to drain the entire dose in one huge gulp.
She never did remember whether it actually tasted like chocolate or not, because she had time only to let out the breath she'd been holding before she froze in place like a marble statue. Her eyes popped to the size of golf balls, and then she collapsed in an unconscious heap. Roarke bent in alarm and began to reach for her, but abruptly drew back when Leslie became instantaneously enshrouded in thick smoke the color of the potion. The two men heard a small, very peculiar popping noise, then a loud hiss. The smoke cleared, and there on the floor was a badly frightened Siamese cat.
For once Lawrence's expression matched his actual feelings. "My God, sir, it worked!" he breathed.
"So it did," murmured Roarke, himself more than a little astonished. Slowly he stretched one hand out to the hissing feline. "Easy, child, it's only me," he said soothingly.
"Here, kitty, kitty," Lawrence contributed and put out a hand. The cat drew back, ears flattened and claws unsheathed, its blue eyes huge with terror. Lawrence took a step, and that was too much for the cat. It fled like a shot, streaking up the stairs and out of sight.
"Leslie, stop!" Roarke shouted, and he and Lawrence rushed up in hot pursuit. Needless to say, the cat was far too fast for them and, by the time they reached the study, had vanished.
"Oh no, sir. The French doors are wide open," Lawrence groaned. A flicker of light cast momentary shadows in the room and both men went to the open doors to see where it had come from. Their answer came about thirty seconds later when they heard a rumble of thunder in the distance.
Roarke closed his eyes. "I was afraid something like this might happen," he murmured, half to himself.
Lawrence straightened to his full height and regarded Roarke sympathetically. "You aren't to blame, sir," he said. "You needed to test the potion on someone, after all. Otherwise, how could you be certain that our future guest would have a satisfactory experience during his stay here?"
"I suggest," Roarke said, annoyed, "that you consider the problem we now face, Lawrence. It's preparing to storm, and Leslie is frightened of thunderstorms. I don't doubt for a moment that this fear has survived her transition into feline form; and since she has fled the house and is out in the open, she will very likely panic. By the time she grows weary enough to stop running, she could be miles from here and caught in the midst of the storm. And in the jungle, she will be all but impossible to find."
Lawrence cleared his throat in embarrassment and actually hung his head. "I'm very sorry, sir," he said. "As a matter of fact, I am usually not so vindictive. I'm afraid the worst of me came out due to my relief at having won the coin toss."
"Indeed," was all Roarke said to that. "Well, there is no help for it. We will have to put together a search party and try to find Leslie. Please drive to Julie's house and ask her and Frida to come back with you, and I will make some phone calls." He found himself wishing this had happened two months ago, before most of Leslie's friends had left for college elsewhere. The only one left was Maureen Tomai, and he promptly called her house and spoke with her parents for a few minutes. They volunteered to bring Maureen over and join in the search.
§ § §
If there was anything left of the human Leslie within the mind of the cat she had become, it wasn't apparent from the outside. She tore through the tropical foliage, veering in some random direction every time lightning flared, flushing out any number of assorted small animals as she went. She ran and ran until an owl, out prowling, dive-bombed her in a royal fury and scared her straight up a palm tree, where she knocked down a coconut and sent a loudly indignant parrot into flight for a more private sanctuary.
The palm tree was one of countless dozens that grew like oversized weeds all over Fantasy Island; and this one gave her a better view of the storm than she liked, either as human or cat. The wind had picked up and sheet lightning illuminated the jungle; occasionally a multi-forked bolt would stab through the air and set off a crack of thunder that wrung yowls of terror from the Siamese. Some instinct, whether human or feline, told the little beast that a tree wasn't the best place to be in a thunderstorm; but she was almost as scared of trying to climb down as she was of the storm. So she clung in place, claws sunk deeply into the trunk, swaying with the tree in the rising wind.
The same owl returned unexpectedly and zoomed straight for her, yellow eyes gleaming maliciously with every burst of lightning. The bird caught the cat completely by surprise and shocked the feline into loosing her precarious grip on the palm tree. Down she plummeted, twisting her body instinctively to land on her feet; but it was a longer way down than she had thought, and the ground was coming up far too fast.