Dark Changeling

by Margaret Carter

  He swallowed, choked with terror.

  “Now you will listen to me, Tony,” she whispered. “I did not kill Rico. I couldn't have killed him, because I'm just an ordinary woman, nowhere near strong enough. I never hurt Rico. Do you understand that?”

  She stared at him until he gave a jerky, puppet-like nod. “You're confused from the shock of the murder. I understand how you feel; I won't report this assault to the police. Thank me for that, Tony.”

  “Thanks,” he parroted.

  The response pleased her, not because she cared about the meaningless apology, but because it proved her mind-control was working. “You aren't feeling well. You're sick from all this stress. You need to go home and rest for a few days. After that you'll feel better. You'll be at peace, and you'll forget all this stuff about me being a killer. Won't you?”

  He nodded. “Rest.”

  “Yes, that's exactly what you need.” She smoothed his shaggy bangs back from his forehead. “Where do you live?”

  He recited an address.

  “Very good. Now I'm sending you home. You're feeling sick, so lean on me, and don't say a word.”

  “Okay.”

  After tucking the knife into his pocket, she led him to the elevator. In the lobby she told the doorman, “The poor boy is ill. That's why he said all those things earlier. Get him a cab.” She repeated Tony's address and handed the doorman a couple of twenty-dollar bills.

  “Sure. Thanks, Miss LaMotte.”

  She didn't go upstairs until she'd seen Tony safely dispatched. Would the hurried hypnotic treatment permanently blot out his conviction that she was a vampire? She doubted that. However, it would hold long enough for her to pack, break her apartment lease, and get out of Boston. She saw no alternative. To that extent, Neil had won.

  Chapter 8

  Annapolis, October, 1979:

  RAIN FELL in a heavy downpour. At his computer keyboard, Roger listened to the rush of water outside. He heard a distant grumble of thunder in the night.

  Glad, for once, of an excuse to interrupt his work, he saved the file and switched off the computer. Why waste a magnificent night like this fiddling with case notes? He welcomed the storm, which provided a break in the Maryland humidity. The cool rain tempted him to go for a run through the trees, perhaps track down a raccoon or deer for a late supper. His townhouse condo, in the St. Margaret's area across the Severn River from Annapolis proper, was conveniently surrounded by unimproved woodland. Pushing the chair back from the desk, he toyed with the question of whether the pleasure of hunting would be worth the inconvenience of dealing with wet clothes afterward.

  With a luxurious stretch, he stood up. He decided to change into shorts and a T-shirt and take that run. On the way to the stairs, his contented mood was fractured by a knock on the front door. He frowned in puzzlement. No one ever visited him except salespeople and the paper boy, and it was too late for either of those. The only acquaintance who might conceivably drop in was Britt, and she would call first. Nor could he think of a reason why she would do so, instead of waiting to speak to him at the office in the morning.

  He strode to the door, probing for the psychic emissions of whoever waited there. The moment he touched the knob, the vibrations resonated through him.

  From the other side of the door he felt something that could emanate from no ordinary visitor—a sensation of pressure, as if the air were about to implode around him. “Who's there?” He detested the harsh tone that betrayed his apprehension.

  “Sylvia.” The thickening tension in the atmosphere vanished at once, like a bubble popping. “Let me in, Roger.”

  Astonished at hearing her voice, Roger opened the door. “Come in.” He stepped aside for her. She said nothing while he closed and bolted the door.

  Physically she hadn't changed. Her black hair, now dripping wet, still flowed wild over her shoulders. She wore black slacks, with a matching sweater plastered to her breasts by the rain. Just before she stepped into the dim light of the living room, her eyes flared with pinpoints of red. Her aura, however, looked pale from stress, and she moved like a skittish cat. Her lips curled back from her teeth as she glared at him. “Doing all right for yourself, Roger? Are you nicely settled? Not going hungry?”

  Her bitter sarcasm bewildered him. By now, he would have expected her anger to cool. And why would she make a visit, after the lapse of a month, just to snarl at him? “Won't you sit down and talk calmly, Sylvia? I have to admit I'm glad to see you—I only wish that were mutual.”

  “Calmly!” She flung her arms wide in exasperation, scattering raindrops. She did stalk over to the fireplace, though, and plant herself on the couch. “You don't have the slightest idea what you did!”

  “No, I don't. I'm sorry for the way I mishandled my part in Sandor's case, but I did what seemed right, considering what I knew at the time.” He recalled the police officer murdered in the attempted arrest. “I had to try to stop him. How could I just ignore what I knew?”

  “Oh, Roger, you sound so damn self-righteous!”

  He stood facing her, his arms folded. “Why are you here?” The turmoil of her emotions gave him shooting pains behind the eyes. “Let me get you a drink—brandy, perhaps.”

  She nodded, some of her tension fading. “I came straight here from the Holiday Inn—stopped just long enough to drop off my luggage. Get me that drink, and I'll tell you exactly what you did.”

  When Roger emerged from the kitchen with a pair of brandy snifters, he found Sylvia leaning back on the couch in a more relaxed position. She even moved over to make room for him. After a swallow of the brandy, she said, “Not what I really want, but it'll do. I've left Boston permanently.”

  “What?” A fresh pain stabbed his forehead. “You're moving here?”

  She gave him a wry smile. “Don't like the idea of sharing your territory? I can't blame you. Don't worry, I'm not planning to settle down. Just a few weeks, to rest—if I can. I've been a nomad for the past month.”

  “Since I left?”

  “Not long after that, and it's your fault.” Her anger flared again, quickly squelched. “Sure, you didn't know what you were doing, so I shouldn't be so hard on you. But I'm the one who's being hounded.”

  Roger took a long drink of his brandy. Its fire did nothing for the anxiety that roiled within him. “By whom? What in Heaven's name are you talking about?”

  “Neil Sandor,” she said.

  He stared at her, beyond surprise. “That is my fault?”

  Sylvia's shoulders twitched irritably. “I told you, he thinks I turned him in, forced him into hiding. Remember Rico?”

  “The boy you were obsessed with. Of course.”

  “Neil killed him—in a very messy way.” Roger felt acid rising in his throat. “Ever since, I've been running from Neil. I can't stay in one city more than a few days. He shadows me, sticks to my trail—and kills most of the donors I've used. Roger, he killed Katrina! Just to prove he was serious!” She almost sobbed the words.

  Her desperation lashed Roger like an icy wind. He clasped her hand, projecting a cloud of warmth as he would for a human sufferer. “Sooner or later, he has to give up, doesn't he? There must be a limit to his revenge.”

  Sylvia shook off Roger's hand. “You don't know him. I used to hunt with him, before I found out what he's like. This kind of thingamuseshim. Even if he got over hating me for what he thinks I did, he'd keep this up for the fun of it.”

  “I simply can't fathom that.”

  “Of course you can't! You're too human—in all the wrong ways! Well, I came here to make bloody certain you know precisely what you've done to me! Not to mention all those people who've been killed, which you probably consider more important.”

  With guilt twisting like a snake in his vitals, Roger tried to protest. “If he hadn't chosen them, it would have been someone else. From all you've said, it sounds as if he's addicted to vio-lence.”

  “Brilliant diagnosis, Doctor.” She abandoned her hal
f-finished brandy to pace across the room and back. “Frankly, I don't care about his addiction. All I want is for him to satisfy it somewhere far away from me.”

  The offhand remark chilled Roger. “Human lives mean nothing to you. You only want security for yourself.”

  She leaned against the fireplace, her gaze challenging him. “You're beginning to catch on. That upsets you, doesn't it? Well, it isn't completely true. I do care about some ephemerals—my pets, like Rico. I didn't want him hurt. But, yes, my own safety comes first.”

  Standing up, Roger glared back at her. “So you led Sandor here. You led him straight to me.”

  “Not intentionally,” Sylvia said. “I may have shaken him—I hope so. There's a chance he didn't follow me this far. Under-stand, Roger—I still like you, for some crazy reason. I won't betray you to Neil. Dark Powers, I could have saved myself all this trouble by giving him your name a month ago.”

  Roger sensed that she spoke the truth. “Then what are your plans?”

  Sylvia shrugged. “Open. I came to Maryland to, well, accuse you, but also to warn you, just in case. Now that's done. After a few weeks here, or longer if Neil doesn't catch up with me, I'll decide where to go next. Maybe Baltimore or Washington, close enough so we can be friends without crowding each other.” Her smile hinted at memories of their nights together in Massa-chusetts, and Roger caught himself smiling back. If nothing else, Sylvia provided something he'd lacked all his life, a companion with whom he didn't need to guard his secret.

  Abruptly her expression turned grim. “But understand this, too. I won't shield you at the risk of my own life.”

  * * * *

  ROGER'S PALE, slender fingers drummed impatiently on his notebook as he half-listened to the ramblings of the man seated in front of him. He forced himself to stop; it wouldn't do to show nervousness. The patient, a Navy Commander with close-trimmed brown hair, sitting tensely upright on the couch, deserved Roger's professional attention. Still, he had trouble imagining that Commander Ford's midlife crisis equaled his own in stress level.

  Sylvia's arrival had thrown him into turmoil. Was Sandor still following her? Or was that her fear talking? After all, a vampire could just as well suffer neurotic fears—look at her religious phobia!—as a human being could. Roger turned cold inside at the thought of the killer's stalking his new home.

  He decided to cut the session short; after all, it was Friday afternoon. A light touch on the wrist and a few whispered words eased the Commander, preconditioned by many previous sessions, into trance immediately. His muscles went limp; his breathing slowed. Roger picked up the rhythm of the man's heartbeat. He caught himself bending closer, until his face was only inches from the patient's. Despite years of practice, exercising his mesmeric power never failed to rouse his appetite. It would be so easy to close the gap—

  No. Since the move, he had kept to his self-imposed discipline. He wouldn't spoil his record.

  Roger drew back until the tumult of his need subsided. After regaining control, he filled the patient's mind with suggestions of tranquil self-confidence. A moment later the man left. Before locking up for the weekend, Roger spent a few minutes in relaxation exercises, which forced the knots out of his limbs without touching more than the fringe of his mental agitation.

  In the reception room he ran into Britt, also on her way out. “I noticed Commander Ford leaving,” she said. “Remarkable improvement in so short a time. How do you do it?”

  “Black magic,” Roger snarled.

  “Not feeling well?” she asked in an impersonal tone, though her green eyes scanned him with more than casual interest.

  “I'm fine, damn it!” Roger caught himself, realizing this touchiness encouraged further curiosity. “Sorry, Britt. I'm just tired—long week.” “Tired” was always an acceptable excuse for bad temper; a reply of “hungry” would provoke unanswerable questions. He wondered why he didn't resent Britt's friendly inquiries as much as he had Dr. Lloyd's.Because Lloyd was a sixty-two-year-old man with hypertensionand a scraggly mustache , he reminded himself, not a beautiful woman almost my own age, in perfect health.

  Since Marcia, their receptionist, had already left, Roger and Britt locked the suite. Roger heard silence from behind the other closed office doors as they walked down the dusty hall. He was anxious to get out of the building without further conversation, but his associate wanted to ask his advice on a new case. “This probably isn't the time to discuss it,” she said, “but this particular patient shows some fascinating variations from the classic pattern.”

  “Of what?” Roger said automatically as they boarded the elevator. Remembering his resolve to discourage conversation, he corrected himself. “No, don't tell me now. Better wait until Mon-day at lunch.” Lunching together to discuss their work wasn't un-usual, though it was generally Britt's work, not Roger's. Despite his vow to keep her at a distance, when she made the overtures, he usually proved too weak to resist.

  Emerging from the building into the late afternoon sun, Roger donned polarized sunglasses and headed for his car. Only Britt's aging VW bug still shared the parking lot with the Citroen. For a moment he watched her retreating figure, wondering (not for the first time) how her titian hair would look released from the tightly coiled knot in which she wore it, to harmonize with dress-for-success three-piece suits. Decidedly unprofessional of him, he reflected, and probably sexist as well. Not to mention lethal to his peace of mind.

  After turning on his ignition, he sat for a moment waiting for the car's air conditioner to relieve some of the accumulated heat. Glancing over at Britt's beetle, he noticed she hadn't driven away either. Instead she stood in back of the car with the hood up and scowled at the exposed engine. Roger sighed. This wasn't the first time he'd seen her clash with the VW's cranky temperament. Now that she'd finished paying off her med school loans, why didn't she buy a vehicle worthy of her professional status?

  He got out, leaving the motor running. When he walked up to Britt, she said, “The generator died. Knew I should have put the darn thing in the shop last week.” She glanced down at the engine, waves of heat shimmering around it, with a wry smile. “And why am I staring at this contraption as if I knew what to do about it?” She banged the hood shut. “I'll have to unlock the office to call triple-A and a cab. Well, I wasn't doing anything this evening anyway.” She started for the building.

  Though Roger did have an appointment, one he wouldn't break, that wasn't until nine. Eager as he was to get home, out of the sun, he could hardly leave his associate stranded. Catching up with her, he said, “Never mind the cab. I'll wait with you and drive you home. It's not far out of my way.”

  In the elevator he asked, “Why don't you trade in that super-annuated pregnant roller skate? It's more trouble than it's worth, surely.”

  “You won't laugh? It's a matter of security. I don'tlike getting used to a new car. I don't even enjoy shopping for one—too much of a muchness of choices.” She tilted her head, watching his reaction with a half-smile. “After all, I'm entitled to my little neurotic quirks. We all have them.”

  “If that's all it is, I'll help you shop. Meanwhile, make your calls so we can get out of here.”

  “I'll second that.” They'd reached the office by now. After Britt had finished her arrangements, they went back downstairs to wait for the tow truck.

  Unable to avoid looking directly at her, Roger noticed a pin on the lapel of her cafe-au-lait jacket. It announced, “If you're not part of the solution, you're part of the precipitate.”

  “Where on earth did you get that? It doesn't quite go with the ensemble.”

  “From a teenage patient who picked it up at a science fiction convention,” she said. “In fact, the very boy I wanted to discuss with you. Roger, I think I may have found a genuine poltergeist.”

  “Still dabbling in that lunatic fringe research?”

  She laughed, unperturbed, as usual, by his rudeness. “When the impossible is eliminated—”

 
“Spare me Sherlock Holmes! I much prefer Lord Peter Wimsey, anyhow. You'll have to go to considerable lengths to convince me you really have eliminated natural causes. Fraud or hallucination would be the rational person's first hypothesis.”

  “Meaning I'm irrational? That's just why I want you for a sounding board; you're such a hidebound skeptic. The ideal Devil's advocate.”

  Roger knew very well that Britt's enthusiasm for psychic research didn't make her credulous. She would exhaust every natural possibility before resorting to the supernatural. Never-theless he was about to fling out another provocative remark, just for the pleasure of listening to her rebuttal, when the tow truck pulled up. He was relieved, for his eyes ached from the sun despite the tinted glasses.

  After the auto club's truck had left with Britt's crippled vehicle, she said to Roger as they got into the Citroen, “How about letting me reward you with dinner? I've got filet mignon in the freezer, and it's just as easy to thaw two as one.”

  Having dropped Britt off the last time her car was in the shop, he needed no directions. He drove down Ridgely Avenue and turned left on Taylor toward the Naval Academy. His first impulse was to refuse the dinner invitation. At nine a young female patient, acting under post-hypnotic suggestion, would arrive at his townhouse. He wouldn't risk missing her. On the other hand, Britt offered a way to kill that uninviting stretch of hours until then. “All right,” he finally said. “We can hash over your ‘poltergeist’ case.”So much for not socializing with my partner. Turning into a world-class rationalizer, aren't I?

  “You mean you plan to slice it into gory fragments,” she said. “You may not find that so easy.”

  By the time they reached Britt's condo, billed as a “luxury flat” in a renovated turn-of-the-century building in the historic district just outside the Academy's Maryland Avenue gate, Roger's daylight-driving headache had grown to maximum intensity. He followed his companion up to the second floor, breathing an audible sigh of relief upon stepping from the unseasonably warm fall afternoon into the cool dimness of the apartment. When Britt started to open the drapes, he said, “Could you leave them, please? I've got a bit of a headache.”