Dark Changeling

by Margaret Carter

  Pulling back from the girl on the couch, he drew several deep breaths to steady his heartbeat and subdue the tumult of his desire.

  He closed his eyes and fought to silence the imaginary whis-pers in his head. He visualized the speakers as a pair of imps, demon and angel, like the figures perched on the shoulders of a cartoon character.

  The tempter with the horns and pitchfork murmured,You're not doing her any harm. A few cc's, she'll never miss it.

  The amount is irrelevant, the haloed angel said.This is perverted, abominable.

  It's no more than you owe yourself for the hours you devote to these people. A supplement to your fee, that's all it is. Like an old country doctor taking his pay in farm produce instead of cash.

  The angel's wings quivered in outrage.It's no different from sexually molesting her while she's under hypnosis.

  It is different—it's different because you need this. You're half out of your mind with needing it, aren't you? She'll never know what you took, and you'll repay her for it with pleasure. Even if you can't let her remember.

  That's disgusting!

  By whose standards? Even old Doc Lloyd comments on how fast your patients improve,the demon insisted in its taunting voice.

  The ends never justify the means,the angel retorted.And have you forgotten how you almost got caught last time?

  You won't get caught, not if you're careful.

  The angelic figure played its trump card.Never mind that, what about the Hippocratic Oath?

  Roger opened his eyes, banishing the actors in his miniature psychodrama. As usual, the internal debate temporarily quenched his ardor. Now that he'd regained control, he once more leaned over the patient, his fingertips lightly touching her temples. He infused her with suggestions of serenity and self-confidence, reinforcing the trigger word he'd taught her to use for therapeutic self-hypnosis. He then woke her to full consciousness and sent her away.

  Friday afternoon, thank God!Left alone, Roger packed the day's notes into his briefcase, locked his office, and walked out through the waiting room. He found the receptionist already gone and Dr. Lloyd also on his way out.

  “It's five o'clock on Friday,” said the older therapist, his florid, mustached face showing the vague concern that had Roger censoring his every word and gesture in Lloyd's presence. “Why are you still here?”

  “I could ask you the same,” said Roger, feigning a light response to the joke Lloyd's remark pretended to be.

  “Touche,” said Lloyd, pausing at the outer door. “But I'm not the one taking work home every night, weekends included.”

  “I find it easier to concentrate away from the distractions of the office.” He couldn't mention his main reason for taking work home, to fill the sleepless hours between nightfall and dawn. A respectable resume of journal articles had grown out of his unconventional sleep rhythms.

  “Every weekend, though? Good Lord, man, do you have a social life at all?”

  “As it happens, I'm going to a party tonight.” No need to mention that it was strictly a “duty” engagement—and why couldn't Lloyd mind his own business, anyway? The man's persistent solicitude made Roger feel swathed in an itchy blanket.

  I'm not being fair to him. He thinks he's showing friendly interest.But that awareness didn't reduce the irritation.

  “Good, you should try that more often. Look, if you need a break, you know I can cover for you in case of emergency. Why not take a few days off?” He stepped closer and laid a hand on Roger's shoulder.

  Roger stiffened. Uninvited touch always felt like an attack to him. Striving not to show his annoyance, he said, “I'll get that ‘break’ when I make the transfer I'm planning.” And it couldn't happen soon enough, a fresh start with a colleague who had no excuse for probing into his personal life.

  Lloyd's smile faded. “Yeah. Too late to talk you into stay-ing, I guess. You've got things practically settled with that lady psychiatrist in Maryland, haven't you?” He let out a long sigh. “Her gain, my loss. You're flying down to meet her—when?

  Oh, yeah, Monday, how could I forget?”

  Roger was sure Lloyd hadn't forgotten and was only making the remark for effect. The man was creeping toward retirement but far from senile. “Yes—if we get along as well in person as we have through the mail, we'll sign the contract, and I'll start preparing for the move.” He eased away from Lloyd's touch and shifted his grip on his briefcase, his other hand poised on the doorknob.

  “Hate to see you leave.”

  “You know I've spent my entire life in Boston. I feel that staying here is no longer conducive to personal growth.” That sort of reasoning always appealed to his partner. He couldn't admit the other motive, his hope that in a new environment he might find the strength to curtail or even overcome his compulsion. “Not that I don't appreciate all you've done for me over the years.” That was true enough; he owed the older man gratitude for accepting him as an associate straight out of his residency and giving him a solid start in private practice.

  “Well, maybe you do need a change. We all tend to get a little stale after too long in one place.”

  Roger couldn't take any more of Lloyd's informal diagnosis today.Next, I'll have to listen to another lecture on “burnout.” Furthermore, the other man's body heat and pulse stirred the craving Roger thought he had managed to suppress. He said a curt goodbye and strode briskly to the elevator, gratefully shaking off his colleague before they reached the parking garage.

  When he eased his black Citroen down the ramp and into the street, the late afternoon sun hurt his eyes even through dark glasses. Fortunately his condo, in a high-rise just off the Southeast Expressway, was only a couple of miles from the office. While his senses and emotions whirled in confusion, a detached segment of his brain maneuvered along the taxi-clogged downtown streets, darting through holes in traffic where a less skilled driver wouldn't dare risk the large, expensive car. His reflexes, operating on automatic, avoided several potential collisions without conscious awareness, while his mind dwelt on his unsatisfied need. Nausea roiled in his stomach. To make matters worse, he'd promised to attend that Harvard fund-raising concert tonight, followed by a party in Cambridge. He saw no way to get out of the commitment, since the hostess was a relative of his late mother.

  Once inside his air-conditioned apartment, with curtains closed and chain and deadbolt secured, Roger at last felt free to relax. Maybe he could fit in a decent nap before the evening's ordeal. He expected to enjoy the concert; the thought of the party, though, plunged him into depression. He would much rather spend the night reading a new Martha Grimes mystery or even working on case files. After removing coat and tie, he poured himself a tall glass of milk. As an afterthought he added a shot of brandy. Not for the first time, he wished it were easier for him to get drunk.

  In the dim living room he put a Bach cassette on the stereo and sat in an Ethan Allen wing-backed armchair, sipping the milk. Though a staple of his diet, it was a poor substitute for what he really craved.

  Human blood.

  He turned hot with shame at the recollection of how he'd almost slipped this afternoon. He was as enslaved to his need as any heroin addict. Otherwise he wouldn't have considered using a patient again. Abstaining for so long—over three weeks—must have clouded his judgment. Guilt impelled him to hold off as long as possible between victims.

  That's illogical, you know,he chastised himself.If drinking blood is wrong, the wrongness doesn't depend on the frequency. Even the rigidly traditional pre-Vatican-II Catholic Church in which he'd been reared hadn't endorsed such a mechanical, score-keeping approach to sin.

  But I don't hurt them. I've never done any permanent damage, much less killed.

  The rationalization didn't convince him any better than it ever did. To head off another round of self-flagellation, Roger leafed through the mail he'd deposited on the claw-footed end table on his way in. Two professional journals, an American Express bill, a supermarket ad—and an envelope po
stmarked Annapolis, Maryland.

  Good—a letter from his prospective partner, Dr. Britt Loren. He added businesslike promptness to the list of virtues her correspondence with him had already revealed. Her letter confirmed their meeting in Annapolis the following Monday.

  Right now, he had to get some rest to fortify himself for the evening. He downed the rest of the drink and retreated to the bedroom. Maybe the milk would enable him to sleep despite the void inside him that screamed to be filled.Look on the bright side, he reminded himself.I've held out for over three weeks. Maybe next time I can go for an entire month. Perhaps he could eventually condition himself to do without it altogether.

  No violence haunted his dreams this time, just murky, half-formed visions that faded immediately upon waking. Wrenched awake at seven by the beep of the digital alarm clock, he stumbled through a cold shower, then went to the kitchen in search of something to damp down the fire in his gut.

  He contemplated tossing a quarter pound of raw ground sirloin into the food processor with a can of beef broth. His stomach protested at the thought; he needed a stronger elixir to help him face crowds of people without losing control. Blood from live animals sometimes worked, an indulgence he had no time for tonight.

  From the freezer he extracted a second-rate substitute, a container of cattle blood. Filipino and Vietnamese markets kept him supplied with the stuff, normally used as an ingredient in pudding-like recipes; he simply took care not to buy too much from any store at once. In the microwave he defrosted the package gradually, on a low setting, then warmed it to body heat. To dilute the viscosity and mask the dead taste, he whirled it in the blender with a cup of burgundy.

  Pouring the concoction into a mug, he drank it at the living room window. He surveyed the view of the Charles River and the skyline of Cambridge until the setting sun began to strain his eyes. In the kitchen he rinsed out the cup and blender, contemplating the dregs with distaste. Thawed beef blood muted the craving but didn't satisfy. He needed the real thing.

  Perhaps Mrs. Bronson's party would offer possibilities. Among all the women present, surely he could find an unattached one who would accept a ride home.Better than violating the doctor-patient boundary. Even if not much better.

  He brushed his teeth to clean out the stale taste and dressed with his usual efficient speed. Knotting his tie, he examined himself in the bathroom mirror, relieved to note that his agitation didn't show on the outside. His silver-gray eyes gave him back a cool stare that could easily be mistaken for self-assurance.

  The stereotype of an omnicompetent healer,he jeered at himself.Too bad it's an illusion.

  Chapter 2

  FIRST, DO NO harm.The vow echoed mockingly in Roger's brain.Hippocrates never had a problem like this.

  But a peaceful summer night in Cambridge, he told himself, was no time to brood on his own depravity. Nor to brood on the burning in the pit of his stomach, when he could slip away to do something about it. Martini in hand, he lurked in a corner of Mrs. Bronson's living room, fighting the queasiness induced by an atmosphere thick with aromas of powder, soap, cologne, smoke, overheated flesh, and assorted food and drink. Worse, though, was the emotional static buzzing in his head. Worst of all was his own ever-present doubt as to whether this “static” was a figment of his own imagination. The clash between the psychic caco-phony and the audible cocktail party chitchat affected him like a TV with the picture tuned to one channel and the sound to another.

  He especially disliked the topic dominating the conversation at the nearby buffet table—the recent outbreak of murders in the area. “Drained of blood—do you believe that?” “Nah, sounds like something the papers would make up to sell copies.” “You'd think the police would be able to find him, slaughtering people in the middle of downtown Boston.” “Hell, the police can't find their—” “Now even theGlobe'sstarted calling him a vampire.” “Why does everybody keep saying ‘him'? Couldn't it be a woman?” “Women don't commit violent crimes like that. Ask our resident expert on abnormal psychology, if you don't believe me.” “Yeah, Roger, what do you think of—”

  The moment he picked up a hint that he might be asked for an opinion, Roger drifted in the other direction. He would almost rather deal with people who insisted on telling him their dreams. He flinched away from a white-coated waiter who thrust a plate of garlic-scented canapes under his nose. Checking his watch, he decided he'd done his duty as a loyal Harvard alumnus for this occasion. He drained his glass, set it down, and began an unobtrusive glide through the eddies of conversation toward the front hall and the stairs.

  A respected member of the medical profession shouldn't be stalking his hosts’ twenty-year-old daughter, but Meg, in bed convalescing from a cold, made too good an opportunity to pass up. As soon as he'd learned of the girl's indisposition, he had decided to visit her instead of launching a tedious and risky seduction of one of the female guests.

  He was dismayed to see Mrs. Bronson herself, with a young woman in tow, cutting a path in his direction through the clustered guests.

  Oh, Lord, not another matchmaking scheme!

  Since the deaths of Roger's parents, nearly twenty years before, Mrs. Bronson had never ceased trying to “fix” his bachelor status. Despite her diminutive, softly rounded exterior, on this topic she displayed the persistence of a hungry shark on a crowded beach. “Now, Roger, what are you doing hiding over here again?” she said, tugging on the hand of a dark-haired woman who looked as lukewarm toward the introduction as Roger felt. “You should try to enjoy yourself more. You work too hard.”

  Dear lady, if you'll let me escape, I fully intend to start enjoying myself.

  “Don't worry about me. No one could possibly have any complaints about your parties.” He bent an appraising stare upon Mrs. Bronson's sacrificial maiden. Her aura, he noticed, held a peculiar streak of deep purple.

  “Sylvia LaMotte, Roger Darvell,” said Mrs. Bronson, relin-quishing the girl's hand. “You have something in common. Sylvia's a Radcliffe graduate, class of ‘78. Sylvia, dear, Roger took his pre-med training and his M.D. at Harvard. His mother was a cousin of mine.” Her cheeks grew pink as she completed this speech in a breathy Marilyn Monroe voice that belied her social-dragon personality. “Roger, Sylvia doesn't know anyone here. Be a dear and take her under your wing for a few minutes.”

  With a nod to his fellow victim, Roger said, “Ordinarily I'd be delighted, but I was about to say goodnight. Headache.”

  “Oh, I suppose your allergies must be acting up again. You've always had trouble with parties, what with other people's perfume and cigarette smoke, haven't you? I do hope you feel better soon.” Mrs. Bronson squeezed his hand in farewell and forged on.

  Roger's first thought about Sylvia was that she was too young. She might be a couple of years older than the average woman only a year out of college, but no more. Mrs. Bronson must be scraping the bottom of the matrimonial barrel. Still, he preferred this offering over most of her choices. For one thing, Sylvia was tall, her gray eyes meeting Roger's almost level.

  Maybe that's why our hostess decided to match us. There aren't many men this woman could look up to.

  “Well, what's your verdict?” Sylvia interrupted his reverie, tossing her long, black hair back from her shoulders. “If you want to part like ships hooting in the fog, I won't tell on you.”

  Probing the surface of her mind, he encountered an intriguing opacity. He'd never met a woman whose emotions he couldn't read instantly.Assuming I'm not imagining the whole thing to begin with, aura and all, he reminded himself for the thousandth time. Clasping her hand, he noticed that her skin felt cool in spite of the stuffy, overcrowded room. “I assure you, if it weren't for my—headache, I wouldn't think of passing you in the fog,” he said as he gave her a more leisurely inspection.

  She wore an Empire gown of pale lilac that echoed a violet tint in her gray eyes. She was pale, small-breasted, thin, almost emaciated, yet with no symptoms of ill health, except the puzzling hu
e of her aura. Roger fixed his eyes on hers, willing her response to the mesmeric talent he'd exercised for years before studying hypnosis during his psychiatric training. She merely stared back with bold curiosity.

  “I didn't know the Bronsons had any cousins named Dar-vell,” she said. “Doesn't sound like a Boston Brahmin name.”

  Nor was it. He was adopted, a circumstance the family didn't hold against him. He deflected the probe with a question of his own. “And you, Miss LaMotte? Are you a ‘Brahmin'?” Her very use of the word made that seem unlikely, but why else would she have been invited?

  “No way,” she laughed, a sound like icy water over rock. “Call me Sylvia. I think we have something more in common than dear old Harvard Yard. I don't think you're any happier to be here than I am.” Her pronunciation of the R's in “Harvard” confirmed her non-local origin. She gave him an expectant, faint-ly puzzled stare, as if he'd failed to return a secret password. Roger caught the fragrance of her hair, unadulterated by any perfume. Her scent, like her aura, tingled with an unfamiliar sharpness, an almost metallic quality.

  Losing my grip—must need it even worse than I thought.

  He trained his eyes upon her again, casually grazing her bare shoulder with his fingertips. She responded to his silent overture only with another quizzical stare. The rhythm of her breathing and heartbeat didn't alter. “I'm here because my professional status obligates me. What about you?”

  Sylvia shrugged. “My—guardian—knows Mrs. Bronson. He asked her to invite me to a few social affairs, and hestrongly urged me to accept. I'm not sure why he insisted, but it beats sitting at home in the evenings. Though not by much.”

  “You're not from this area yourself, then?” Beneath the conventional gambit, he continued to dig at the smooth surface of her mind, intrigued by her lack of response.

  What would it take to crack her shell? Or would it be more like peeling an onion?