Dark Changeling

by Margaret Carter

  And there I go, lecturing a patient—exercise in futility. Yet Alice's eyes did spark with response for a second, before she answered in the flat tone of someone stating an axiom, “Easy for you to say. You don't know how I feel.”

  “Oh, but I do.” He could never tell his patients how true that claim was, how his empathic talent picked up every nuance of their emotions. “That's what I was just saying. We all know how loneliness feels.” He took advantage of her communicative mood to ease closer to the bed. “Will you give me that bottle?” His eyes enticed and trapped hers.

  “I'll give it toyou.” She put the cap on and held the container out to him.

  Roger plucked it from her fingers, slipped it into his pocket, and sat beside her. “How many have you taken?”

  “Just one. Just to show them I was serious.”

  “Were you?” he said evenly. “Do you really want to die?”

  “I don't know. If there's another world after death, it's probably as—nothingas this one. Anyway, I don't much want to live. I'm scared, Doctor. He calls me—at night—and I dream I'm going to him. Or maybe it's not a dream. He's close by. I know it!”

  “He? The man who attacked you?” She nodded. Roger examined her aura, seeking a trace of a vampire's shadow on her. Was she suffering from a delusion? Or could Sandor actually be returning to her over and over, draining her? That gradual approach would be atypical of him. Yet Alice looked pale and weak enough to support that assumption.

  She clasped Roger's hand. “You're the only person who makes me want to live. Nobody else understands me.”

  “We've been over this before. You mustn't make me into more than I am.” He increased his subtle pressure on her mind. “And keep your voice down. We aren't in the office now. You'll upset your parents.”

  “Oh, them.” The dragged-out weariness in her voice lightened as she said, “I want to talk about you and me. I just couldn't wait for our next session.” She rose onto her knees to sway toward him, wrapping an arm around his neck. “You know I—I've got a thing for you. I've told you enough times. Why won't you listen?”

  “I do listen. That is my role, not what you're suggesting.” He became aware of the rapid flutter of her pulse. Though thin to the point of emaciation—she wasn't one of those women who dealt with depression by overeating—she adhered fanatically to a lacto-vegetarian, high-fiber diet that kept her blood clean. Even now, in her washed-out condition, she would taste good.

  “But you'renot listening,” she said petulantly. “You won't believe my feelings for you are real. I hate that!” She delivered the last remark in a vehement whisper, obeying his demand for quiet.

  “I believe that you think they're real.” True, Alice's overture was an attempt to manipulate him, yet on one level her lust for him was unfeigned. The mounting excitement she radiated mocked Roger's self-control. He caught himself salivating. I have to make her stop!"Lie down, Alice, and let's run through your relaxation exercises.” She obeyed, half entranced by the mesmeric influence he couldn't keep himself from exerting.

  Dropping his voice to a level she could barely hear, he cupped her face between her hands and drew his fingers lightly down her temples and jawline to her neck. “Follow my hands, Alice, and as I touch each part of your body, feel the tension flowing out, warmth and healing flowing in....” Conditioned by long practice, she yielded and grew pliant, muscle by muscle, along the path he traced. The treatment wasn't working as Roger had hoped, though. The relaxation drill didn't erase Alice's sexual excitement, but only made it more dreamy and sensual.

  Probably because I don't really want to cool her off.When he consciously tried to stop arousing her, tension knotted his hands and stirred Alice out of her languor. “I have to go, now that you're feeling better,” he said, afraid to make matters worse by continuing the exercise.

  “No, please don't,” she whispered. Her hands slid up his arms. “My folks won't try to come in here—they're too scared of what I might do. Make love to me.”

  “That's out of the question. Aside from the ethics, you're a virgin.”

  She said with a bitter smile, “Right, a twenty-year-old virgin. A freak. That needs fixing, and I want you to do it.”

  “That isn't a sound motive for sexual experimentation.” He hardly heard the words himself, and he knew very well that his hypnotic gaze was telling her the opposite. Against all reason, he reached out to stroke her temples again. “You will remember nothing of this except the relaxation exercises. You will not attempt suicide again. When you awaken, you will be serene, content, at peace.” Would the suggestion take? Probably not, considering her past record, but it might calm her down for a few weeks. As for the command to forget, that would work—and did it mean he'd decided to accept what she offered?

  I can't! I promised Britt.

  His animal nature snarled,Well, Britt isn't here, and I'm starving! Alice had taken one Valium, not enough to affect Roger. He sensed her health wasn't up to par, as if she might be sickening for a viral infection. At this early stage, though, it wouldn't spoil the flavor of her blood. And he wouldn't take enough to hurt the girl, no more than he had the first time.

  As he bent over her, shifting his massage to her neck and shoulders, she embraced him again. The liquid rhythm of her blood, like waves lapping on a sheltered beach, eroded his resistance. Without his conscious will, his hand drifted over her breasts and abdomen to the juncture of her thighs. She thrust against his delicate probe, moaned softly, and went limp.

  Her release pushed him over the edge. He drank, watching himself with cold contempt, while his famished senses wallowed in the heat of her blood and her desire. After several minutes he realized Alice was growing weak, though still clinging to him with ravenous lust, and yet he felt no infusion of energy.

  I'm overdoing it—got to stop!

  Shuddering with the effort, he unfastened his mouth from her throat. Alice clutched at him, murmuring, “No, don't stop!” He surrendered. After all, he was giving her pleasure, more than any merely human male could.

  Is that the best rationalization you can dream up? You sound like those vermin who seduce patients on the pretext of curing their inhibitions.But he kept drinking.

  Several minutes later he realized that, although gorged to the point of satiety, he didn't feel satisfied. Her blood tasted little more piquant than a raccoon's or deer's. Whatever he'd grown to expect from the feast wasn't there.

  Disengaging, he pressed his handkerchief to the incision until the bleeding stopped. Alice lay entranced, heavy-lidded. Her pale aura screamed Roger's indiscretion.

  Thank Heaven her parents can't see it.Did the girl need a transfusion? Scanning her aura more deeply and listening to her heart, Roger decided she would recover without one. “Sleep now,” he whispered. “Sleep and be well.”

  In the living room he handed the Valium bottle to Mrs. Kovak. “I suggest you lock these up, or, better yet, get rid of them.” She clutched the bottle and nodded meekly. “Alice is resting. When she wakes up, try to persuade her to eat and drink something, but don't badger her. Understand?” He gazed sternly at both the girl's parents in turn. Peter seemed to have retreated to his side of the house, Roger was glad to see.

  “Sure, we got it,” said Mr. Kovak. “I know she's had a rough time. I'm not about to push her around.”

  So Mrs. Kovak had somehow managed to calm down her husband. “One more thing,” Roger said. “She may still be a danger to herself. I strongly urge you to have her committed for a brief period of observation.”

  “Put her in a mental institution?” Mr. Kovak said. “No way!”

  “But if the doctor thinks—” his wife began.

  “Only a three-day period of observation,” said Roger.

  “I said no! She's not crazy.”

  Since it was obvious that pursuing the argument would only worsen Mr. Kovak's hostility, Roger turned his attention to smoothing the atmosphere all over again. After delivering the ritual reassurances the couple ex
pected from a physician, he made his escape.

  On the drive home the glare of the afternoon sun nauseated him. Rolling down the windows didn't help. By the time he reached his townhouse, his stomach was churning. He dashed inside to the bathroom and disgorged everything he'd drunk.

  Afterward, weak with shame as well as nausea, he stood under a cold shower for ten minutes.What have I done? Risked exposure and broken my word—for nothing ! Good God, had he actually ravished a patient with her parents waiting a few rooms away? But why the violent physical rejection? That had to be more than sun-sickness. Nor could a single Valium upset his system that way.

  Addiction!So Volnar hadn't been talking about a mere emotional habituation; he meant true biochemical dependence. Roger physically required his lover's blood.

  That night he dined only on warm milk, afraid to insult his body even with animal blood. For the first time, he was pro-foundly grateful to receive no long-distance call from Britt.

  Chapter 17

  WHEN THE phone rang after 11 p.m. on Thursday, he expected and dreaded to hear Britt's voice. Instead, the caller turned out to be Mr. Kovak.

  “We're at the hospital with Alice. She wants to see you—damned if I know why.”

  Roger didn't take the man's surly tone as a hint that he suspected Roger's misdeed. Mr. Kovak seemed the type who would entertain suspicions of any counselor's motives and competence. “What's wrong with Alice?” He went cold at the thought that she might have collapsed from exsanguination.

  “They say pneumonia. She's in intensive care. You coming or not?”

  “Yes, I'll be right over.” Roger hung up without a goodbye and rushed out.

  Pneumonia. Not anemia, thank Heaven, but no less Roger's fault. He'd noticed her less than vibrant condition and had taken her anyway. Weakening her immune system had probably led to the infection. And in her slightly undernourished state, she might die of it.

  At the red brick community hospital downtown, in a residential district just off Duke of Gloucester Street, Roger hurried up to the ICU and found all three Kovaks waiting in the lounge. Mrs. Kovak clasped his hand and thanked him for coming. Alice's father and brother looked as if they wanted to blame Roger for the girl's illness but couldn't think of a plausible reason. “Hell of a way to spend Thanksgiving night,” Mr. Kovak growled.

  Buzzing the intercom, Roger was admitted to the ward and introduced to Dr. Harlow, the resident on duty, a trim young black man whose coffee-and-cream face showed lines of strain. He earnestly delivered an encyclopedic account of Alice's condition, the convoluted technical terminology boiling down to “stable.”Was I ever that young? Roger mused, keeping his face impassive to hide the weight that instantly lifted from his mind.

  “When will she be transferred from the ICU?”

  “Tomorrow, probably,” said the resident.

  “Very good, I'll call to check on her in the afternoon.”

  “One thing puzzles me,” said Dr. Harlow, his frown lines deepening. “Her hematocrit's low, which pneumonia doesn't account for. No symptoms of internal hemorrhage, either. I've ordered a few tests.” He detailed them, while Roger nodded agreement, keeping his expression neutral. Once replenished by a transfusion, Alice's blood wouldn't show any signs to provoke further investigation—he hoped.

  Finally Dr. Harlow ushered him into Alice's room. Hooked up to the respirator, she could greet Roger only with her eyes. The odor of sickness and disinfectant made his stomach turn over.The smell of death. For the first time it struck Roger that although eventually he might be killed, he would never experience this creeping decay. He forced himself to walk to the bed and take the girl's hand. She clenched his, her nails digging into his flesh.

  “Easy,” he said, stroking her forehead. “I assure you that you'll be all right. You're frightened and uncomfortable now, but that will pass.” He stared into her eyes, compelling belief. The grip on his hand relaxed. “Surrender your will to mine. Let me take your pain away.” That was the least he could do. He continued to murmur incoherent reassurances while smoothing her damp hair. He felt her breathing ease; the bedside monitor showed a slowing of her heartbeat and a drop in blood pressure. Five minutes later she drifted into sleep.

  In the lounge he passed on to the Kovaks Dr. Harlow's assurance that Alice would move to a regular ward the next day. No doubt they'd already been told, but Roger knew in these circumstances people tended to hear only half of what was said and distort the rest. The sadness and fear they projected felt like a block of stone lying on his chest. He repeated, “Alice will be perfectly all right,” several times, with variations, exerting hypnotic pressure on each of the three in turn. Mrs. Kovak greedily devoured the reassurance, while the two men lost little of their wariness.

  Just before leaving, Roger said, “When Alice has recovered, I don't think it would be wise for me to continue as her therapist. She's developing an unhealthy dependence on me. I suggest we discuss transferring her to Dr. Loren.” He wasn't surprised to see Mr. Kovak nod agreement.

  Roger retreated before Dr. Harlow could pop up and trap him in another medical consultation. Outside, he inhaled a deep breath of the relatively clean air, considering what he'd recommended to the Kovaks. That course of action couldn't be avoided, which meant he would have to tell Britt the whole story.

  As if I'd conceal it from her anyway!He would have to call her immediately. No, not tonight; by now it was after nine in California. Tomorrow evening. He felt guilty relief at postponing the confrontation.

  After one the following day, he called the hospital to check on Alice. As predicted, she had recovered enough to move out of the ICU. Roger said a silent prayer of thanks. At least he'd have a modicum of good news to pass on to Britt.

  He flipped through his address book to her sister's number. After he'd stared at it long enough to memorize it several times over, even without his eidetic memory, he admitted to himself that he didn't want to confess his transgression over the phone. The complicated, painful situation didn't allow that kind of handling. He had to tell her face to face.

  Sunday night. I'll tell her then.

  On the other hand, suppose she phoned him earlier? How could he carry on a normal conversation while keeping that secret? Could he wait for her return home?

  That night, after hours of postponement with every scrap of busy-work he could devise, he still vacillated between the two equally threatening alternatives. In the dim cave of his study, he glared at the phone as if it were a vicious beast ready to pounce. He picked up and replaced the receiver twice before admitting he hadn't the nerve to make the call.

  He needed advice, and he'd rather grope through the fog forever than appeal to Volnar. Instead he dialed his brother Claude's Los Angeles number.

  In a heavily British accent, Claude said, “It's delightful to hear from you, little brother. Damn shame about Sylvia, though.”

  “Did you know her?”

  “Not really. Ran into her a couple of times.” Over the line, Roger heard cloth rustling and the phone being moved, as if Claude were settling for a long conversation. “I knew that blighter Sandor was a blot on the landscape, but I never thought he'd go that far.”

  “Were you acquainted with Sandor?”

  “Only by reputation. Crossed paths with his twin, Camille, a couple of years ago. She hung about with those white-faced young people who dress in black and write poetry that doesn't scan—said they made for good hunting—but she seemed sane on all other subjects.” In a more sober tone, he added, “Except for defending her scum of a brother, but that's to be expected. Sibling loyalty.”

  A sudden onslaught of anger squeezed Roger's throat. “If sibling loyalty is so damned important, what about all those years when I—”

  “Don't bare your fangs at me, little brother. I had no choice. Among our kind, age really does mean wisdom and power. Nobody in his senses would defy one of the eldest.”

  “Meaning Sandor is out of his senses.” Roger forced his breathing and blo
od pressure under control. He hadn't phoned to pick a fight with Claude.

  “Hell, that goes without saying.”

  “Volnar has passed a death sentence on him and expects me to carry it out.”

  “He would, wouldn't he?” said Claude with a humorless laugh. “I daresay it's meant partly as a sort of test. Are you man enough—or vampire enough—to defend your own territory? That's how he would see it. But surely you didn't call to discuss Neil Sandor?”

  “Not directly. I've had a hell of a week, and I need to talk about it, if I'm not interrupting anything.”

  “An hour ago, you would have been.” Claude purred like a cat replete with cream. Roger fantasized about decking him. “But now I'm at your disposal. By the way, how is your lady? Dare I hope she is yours by now?”

  “In a manner of speaking,” Roger said.

  “So you did score. Well done,mon frere !”

  Roger struggled to leash his temper. “I don't think of Britt in those terms.”

  “Oh, like that, is it? Then why would you waste time ringing me up on a Friday night? Why aren't you enjoying her company at this moment?”

  “She isn't here; she's visiting her sister in Long Beach,” Roger said. He flexed the fingers of his left hand, which had been clutching the edge of the desk. “That's what I need advice on.”

  “And you don't want to discuss her with Fearless Leader. Can't blame you,” Claude said. “Fire away. You sound damn near worn out. Been starving yourself while she's out of reach?”

  “If I wanted to hear that, Iwould go to Volnar,” Roger said, rubbing his forehead. “Britt has been away from home since Saturday morning.”

  “And you didn't want anyone else. I understand that. I've had that experience myself, a long time ago. Dom Perignon,n'est-ce pas ?”