Dark Changeling Part 11

"Demonstrable as anything but reading back present knowledge into past ambiguous remarks? You actually believe in that sort of thing, don't you? As a youthful aberration, it's excusable, but I'd think that a professional in her mid-thirties would have outgrown it." He saw no contradiction between exer-cising his own powers and disbelieving the phenomena popularly called "supernatural."

The very fact that he could control those powers demystified them for him.

He watched Britt placing the steaks under the broiler. For a few seconds he toyed with the fantasy of slaking his thirst here and now. The allure of a mind like hers- But it had to remain a fantasy.

Setting out her salad and Roger's juice, Britt motioned for him to join her at the table. "Just because I don't have time for research in private practice doesn't mean I've given up. If I could be the one to produce objective, repeatable verification of psi phenomena, wild talents-"

"By its very nature, doesn't that sort of thing tend to be non-repeatable?" He sipped the orange juice, particularly unappealing while blood-hunger nagged at him. "It's a faint hope, anyway, since all the most interesting 'supernatural' events in the literature have been exposed as fraud or, at best, honest confusion. Look at Bridey Murphy."

"Not conclusive," Britt retorted. "Besides, I don't specialize in reincarnation."

"Surprising, what with your belief in collective memory. Your readiness to pay attention to this tripe obviously springs from your unfortunate theoretical orientation. Mystical Jungian mumbo-jumbo."

"More humane than your Freudian mumbo-jumbo." The exchange, repeated countless times, had already jelled into a ritual.

Britt broke off the duel to serve the steaks. With an exaggerated flourish of her wine gla.s.s, she said, "Laugh all you like. They laughed at Galileo-they laughed at Columbus-"

Roger eagerly attacked the nearly raw meat. "And they were right. His calculations were off by several thousand miles."

Britt went on to explain in detail her presumptive evidence for authentic poltergeist and precognitive events. Roger was almost sorry when the meal-topped off by vanilla ice cream drizzled with creme de menthe-ended. Close contact with a superior mind was delightfully stimulating. Almost too stimu-lating.

After dinner Britt persuaded him, against his better judg-ment, to linger on the couch with a cup of strong coffee. "Then again, speaking of psychic powers," she said, "what do you think of mosquitoes?"

"I seldom do. They seem to find me unappetizing." Perhaps bloodsuckers didn't prey on their own kind.

"Lucky you-they love me. I must have delicious blood."

I'm sure you do.He took a long swallow of the hot coffee, wis.h.i.+ng it could scald away his thirst.

"My point is that some people positively attract mos-quitoes," Britt said.

He gave her a puzzled look. "If there's a connection with Fortean 'wild talents,' I'm missing it."

"Haven't you ever met people who seem to materialize the little beasties out of thin air, when n.o.body else notices them at all?"

He smiled indulgently. "So?"

"I theorize that these individuals project a subliminal force that draws biting insects-perhaps causing them to teleport from distant locations. A kind of psychic pheromone." Only the sparkle in her eyes revealed that she was joking. "Think of it as a negative talent. What I need to do is set up a statistical study of the number of mosquitoes per victim, corrected for age, s.e.x, state of health-"

"And you'll discover that the attraction factor is a purely physical pheromone," Roger said, going along with the joke.

"To rule that out, I'll have to seal the subject in a sterile room, so when a swarm of mosquitoes appears out of nowhere, like the cloud over that man in 'Li'l Abner'-" She trailed off into giggles. In spite of his physical discomfort, Roger laughed with her.

Frowning at the coffee she'd sloshed into her saucer, Britt set the cup and saucer on the table. She leaned back to stretch an arm across the top of the couch, her fingers lightly grazing the nape of Roger's neck. "Too bad you have to rush off. How un-breakable is that date of yours?"

His spine tingled at her touch. "Set in concrete." If only it didn't have to be that way.

Britt edged closer to him. Roger held perfectly still, to avoid making any move she might read as encouragement. "How's the headache?" Her fingertips ma.s.saged the taut muscles of his neck and shoulder blades.

He hadn't given it a thought for the past hour. "Better."

Her mouth quirked in amus.e.m.e.nt at his curt reply. "Then stop looking as if you're about to be tortured on the rack."

Had she no idea what she was doing to him? Of course she did-an experienced woman like Britt wouldn't flirt without full awareness of consequences.

How experienced? An unexpected flash of jealousy seared through Roger. Ridiculous-he knew Britt had no intimate male friends and, in fact, restricted her social activities mainly to career-related events. Anyway, he had no right to speculate about her private life.

Somehow she had inched so close that her breath tickled his cheek. He smelled mint, vanilla, coffee, and her unique scent, enhanced by only a whisper of Chanel. (He'd firmly impressed on both Britt and Marcia his allergic reaction to heavy perfumes.)I could have her right now. What he'd pigeonholed as impossible suddenly loomed before him as a live temptation. If she desired him, too- No! She is not prey!He mentally rehea.r.s.ed all the reasons why he could neither take her unaware nor-unthinkable!-tell her the truth.

Meanwhile, Britt's eyes searched his for cues. Interpreting his hesitation as consent, she closed the gap and brushed his lips with hers. Electricity zapped through him. He didn't dare re-spond. Losing himself in the kiss would overturn his self-control like a rowboat in a storm-lashed river. Yet he couldn't force himself to pull away, either. He put one arm lightly around her and pa.s.sively accepted her exploratory nibbles.

When Britt's tongue probed the corners of his mouth, he knew he had to stop her. Suppose the razor edge of his teeth nicked her tongue, and he tasted her blood? He wrenched himself out of the loose embrace and checked his watch. "I must go now." He hoped she couldn't hear the unsteadiness of his breathing.

Britt sat back, hands locked behind her head, coolly gazing at Roger. "I don't interest you?"

Interest!What a feeble word for how she affected him! "That's beside the point." He stood up before she could renew her attack.

"We work together."

Britt, too, got to her feet, smiling ruefully at what she clearly considered a lame excuse. "Have you forgotten we run the office? Not to mention that we have only one employee? Why should we enforce fraternization rules against ourselves?"

"Any-intimacy-would make a professional relations.h.i.+p too difficult." He started for the door.

"Has anyone ever told you how exasperating you are?" He felt indignation sizzling beneath her calm surface.

"Now and then, yes." Safe on the threshold, he said, "Thank you for dinner. I'll see you Monday."

"Fine." Her green eyes glinted dangerously. He could almost hear her thoughts:We're not finished with this!

Twilight was well advanced when Roger's Citroen crept past the Naval Academy and turned toward the Severn. Traffic became lighter and faster-moving, only to grind to a halt at the old Severn River bridge. The blasted drawbridge stood open. Roger gritted his teeth in frustration. No sailor himself, he felt no sympathy for the boating hobbyists and considered it an outrage that their frivolous pastime was allowed to disrupt the serious business of the town.

Calm down,he told himself.There's still plenty of time until nine. Good grief, I might as well be begging for ulcers and hypertension!

After the bridge traffic unclogged, he made it to his condominium near St. Margaret's Road without further delay. The developer had let plenty of trees stand untouched around the semicircular townhouse complex, built well back from the narrow, winding side road. The quiet and shade began to quell Roger's irritation as soon as he pulled into the parking lot. While unlocking his door he felt a sudden p.r.i.c.kle of uneasiness, like eyes focused on the back of his head. He turned to scan the parked cars and the surrounding woods. Nothing. With a shake of his head he stepped inside. No unfamiliar scent hung in the air.

Yet he couldn't cast off the impression that something was about to go wrong. He ordered himself to stop thinking nonsense. As he had told Britt, he didn't believe in premonitions. Simple tension, that must be his problem.

After a cold shower, he dressed in a royal blue lounging jacket and poured a gla.s.s of milk. The more bulk nourishment he consumed before the a.s.signation, the more easily he could hold the his donor's blood loss to a minimum. He had to force himself to sit down and drink the milk slowly rather than prowling around the house in a fever of impatience. Next he drew out as long as possible the routine of preparing the bedroom-red satin throw cover on the bed, fresh candles on the dresser to shed a muted, eerie glow.

He'd adopted Sylvia's suggestion about "atmosphere." Ex-perimentation had proved her right; the decor did enhance his satisfaction, allowing him to take a smaller fluid volume from a donor. Still, he felt like an idiot in this setting. Why not go all the way and wear a Bela Lugosi cape?

He knew he would forget his self-consciousness the moment his visitor walked into the room. He'd chosen Alice Kovak, a twenty- year-old community college student under treatment for depression. She lived at home with her parents and older brother, who viewed her lively imagination with stolidly blue-collar suspicion. At present she was between antidepressants, so her blood would taste pure. She would park about a mile away and walk to his condo. After a delicious half-hour, she would return to her car and drive home, remembering only vague restlessness a.s.suaged by a long, solitary ride. He salivated at the thought.

He loaded a Wagner ca.s.sette into the stereo and paced around the living room, hardly aware of the music. What could be keeping the girl? Glancing at his watch, he found it was only two minutes after nine. Seemed later.This has got to be the last time with her, he admonished himself,so I'd better make it good.

He hadn't planned to prey on patients here at all, but he hadn't yet learned his new territory very well. Ordering a patient to his home under post-hypnotic suggestion seemed the safest course, until he developed fresh hunting strategies.That excuse has about worn out, hasn't it? Next time I'll feed on a stranger. He reminded himself that this would be only the second time he'd consumed human blood since leaving Boston. Maybe his tapering-off program would succeed.

He circled the room a few more times, then strode to the window to peer between the drapes. There she was, finally. A slim blonde, Alice wore a pale pink dress, swirling around her knees, and clutched a shawl around her neck.Funny, it seems too warm for that. Watching her cross the road, Roger was struck by something odd in her gait. She almost staggered. When she came closer, he noticed that her aura was faded and murky.

As soon as she reached the door, he opened it and clasped her free hand to draw her inside. The other hand kept the shawl tightly wrapped around her shoulders and neck. Trance glazed her eyes-an unexpectedly deep trance. The perfume of fresh blood wafted from her.

"Alice?" He gently pried her fingers away from the shawl. At that touch she let it drop. Under it she wore a scarf-soaked bright red.

Roger abruptly released her. Fumbling at the scarf, she pulled it off and at the same instant crumpled to the floor.

Her lacerated throat bled copiously. Roger dug a handkerchief out of his pocket and pressed it to the wound. Too alarmed to think of his own thirst, he gazed into her eyes. The hypnotic bond compelled her. She relaxed, and the direct pressure slowed the bleeding. Given a prompt transfusion, she might live. Whatever had slashed her throat had missed the jugular and carotid.

He slid the shawl beneath her and lifted her to the couch, propping her feet on a cus.h.i.+on. "Alice, who did this?" Her eyes stared unresponsively, her consciousness slipping away. "Answer me!"

He picked up an emotion, a blend of l.u.s.t and terror, not directed at him. "Don't know his name," she whispered. "Eyes-like yours." Astonished, Roger let her fall into unconsciousness.

He had no time to a.n.a.lyze the implications, for Alice needed hospitalization. Imagine this happening in his living room! Yet in this case he owned no guilt. He had to hang onto that fact. What would he do if he were equally innocent in thought?

Examine her, then call for an ambulance. He drew a deep breath to steel himself for the ordeal. Why should the police suspect him, after all? Wasn't it natural for Alice, when attacked, to turn to her doctor for help? And if she lived, she would testify that Roger wasn't her a.s.sailant.

He picked up the phone and punched 911. After completing the call, he turned off the music and put the candles back in a bedroom drawer. He didn't want to leave any evidence that he'd been expecting a visitor.

WITHIN LESS than an hour the ambulance and police had come and gone. The IV had revived Alice enough to enable her to give a sketchy account of how she'd been driving around "to think things over," had stopped for a stroll in the woods, and had been attacked by a man whose face she couldn't recall. She'd set out for Roger's house, since she knew he lived close by. She claimed to remember nothing else.

As far as Roger could tell from a.n.a.lyzing the police of-ficers' reactions, they accepted his "innocent bystander" pose. He expected no further trouble.That was d.a.m.n close, though! he reflected, his hands shaking as he poured a fresh gla.s.s of milk, liberally laced with brandy. Though his stomach protested the additional burden, he forced down the concoction for its tran-quilizing effect.

His head still reeled between pity for Alice and rage at her attacker. To rip out her throat and leave her to die! The atrocity, touching someone he knew, stirred Roger more deeply than the other a.s.saults had. He felt responsible for the girl's condition, since her link with him must have drawn the ravisher.Sandor-who else? Sylvia was right.

And she had brought him here!

Meanwhile, on top of his major crime, the renegade had disrupted Roger's schedule. Roger frowned at his empty gla.s.s. His system still cried out for what it had been denied. He wouldn't risk taking a victim at random, not so close to home. Instead he went out to hunt animal prey. Several hours of strenuous hiking through the woods, along with the blood of a few rac-c.o.o.ns or opossums, might relieve his tension enough to let him rest the following day.

LATE SAt.u.r.dAY afternoon the telephone's ring broke into Roger's sleep. Sometimes he wished he hadn't trained himself to wake at that stimulus. With a muttered curse, he picked up the receiver.

"h.e.l.lo, Dr. Darvell," said a male voice. "How did you like last night's entertainment?"

Roger sat up. "Who is this?"

"Have you already forgotten what you did to me in Boston?" The voice didn't display anger; instead, it gloated.

Roger felt as if an icicle were stabbing through his temples. "Neil Sandor."

"And I thought it was little Sylvia! I should have known she didn't have the guts."

"What are you after, Sandor?"

"For now, just to watch you squirm-take my time and have fun with you."

Roger struggled to rein his anger. Losing control wouldn't help. "By attacking an innocent woman?" "Innocent?" Sandor made the word sound like an obscene joke. "How was it? Didn't you enjoy my present? I got her primed and ready for you."

"I didn't-" Roger shut up, revolted at the thought of dis-cussing his habits with this psychopath.

"Not even a sip? Then you must be in bad shape by now. You've got a lot to learn if you actually pa.s.sed up that luscious little-"

Roger slammed the phone down.

Trembling with fury, he dressed in a blind rush and stormed out of the house to the car. He didn't realize where he meant to go, until he found himself pulling up to the Holiday Inn near Route 50 in Annapolis. He needed answers from Sylvia-right now.

Chapter 9

WHEN HE KNOCKED on the door of Sylvia's motel room, she mumbled a protest in a voice thick with sleep.

"I don't care how early it is," he said through the door. "Let me in, if you don't want me to shout it in the middle of the corridor."

Her sluggish footsteps approached. "You wouldn't. You're the one who has to keep living here." But she was already unfastening the bolt.

Sylvia let him in and offered him a chair. Draped in a sheer nightgown, her hair a tangled mane, she curled up on the bed. "Did it take you this long to think up a reb.u.t.tal to what I said the other night? And if so, couldn't it wait until after dark?" She yawned.

"Sandor is here."

She froze in mid-stretch. "What happened?"

"He almost killed one of my patients." Roger narrated Friday night's events and repeated Sandor's message verbatim.

Staring at the wall, Sylvia murmured, "So he believes me now."

Roger felt like shaking her. "Why the devil wouldn't he? You came straight to me the moment you arrived here, so he must have followed you and then started watching me. If his paranormal perception is anything like yours, it couldn't have taken him long to discover my-oddity."

Sylvia focused on him. "Yes. And it must have been your-well, your shadow, you might say-on the girl that led Neil to attack her. We can tell when someone has served as a donor-it shows in the aura. And people who've been touched are awfully attractive. Maybe he mesmerized your girl and found out she belonged to you."

"And that made her fair game? Is that how your kind think?" Even now, he didn't think "our kind." He wasn't like Sylvia; he couldn't sprout wings and levitate.

"Only for an outlaw. Taking somebody else's prey is taboo. That's why Neil would see it as the perfect revenge." Stripping off her gown, she stepped over to an open suitcase and picked out a selection of garments. "Roger, I'm sorry he's done this to you. On the other hand, I won't deny that I'm glad he isn't after me anymore."

Roger lunged across the room, grabbed her by the shoulders, and spun her around. "Not good enough, d.a.m.n it! Youled him to me! I've had more than enough of your evasiveness."

Dropping the clothes she was holding, Sylvia placed her hands lightly on his chest. "All right, Roger. What do you want from me?"

"I can't deal with this in a vacuum, and you claim you aren't allowed to give out information. Very well-put me in touch with the other vampires."