Dark Changeling

by Margaret Carter

  When he regained the capacity for coherent thought, Roger “heard” Britt's voice in his head: “So we don't have to see through each other's senses all the time. That's a relief; too much of it could make me dizzy.”

  Mentally groping, Roger realized that the total union had indeed faded, but that he could reawaken it, or fragments of it, at will. “Yes, being close this way doesn't mean we'll never want privacy inside our own skulls.”

  “Did you know what it would be like?”

  “Dear colleague, I had no idea! If I'd known, I'd have done it weeks ago.”

  After a moment of amorphous content, Britt said aloud, “We can experiment with telepathy later. It's more tiring than I expected.”

  “True—forming articulate sentences isn't like that spontaneous—” He could find no words for it. The memory alone fired his ardor anew. “I don't believe this. I don't want to behave like a greedy monster, but—”

  “You're still thirsty,” she said. “Remember, you can't hide a thing from me now.” She was almost purring.

  “You did say ‘all night.’ We've barely started.” He longed to enjoy her at leisure, with a clear head. Or as clear as it could ever be, with the flavor of her life on his lips.

  Britt's fingers fumbled with his shirtsleeves while he eased off her pullover. She paused to unbind her hair, a red-gold cascade that flowed through his caressing hands. Britt tugged at the one sleeve he hadn't removed yet.

  He took over the task. “You know, it would be more efficient if we'd each undress ourselves.”

  “But not nearly as much fun.”

  A minute later, both naked, they tumbled onto the carpet. Stroking the silky hair on his chest, Britt said, “Your skin feels even cooler than normal.”

  “Because I'm famished.” He hugged her close, delighting in the fit of her firm curves against him. He wished he could enjoy her with every square inch of exposed skin simultaneously. It seemed that her pulse and his, her breathing and his, kept precise rhythm with the throb of her aura. As a doctor he knew that was impossible, since heartbeat was always faster than respiration, but that was how it felt.

  She raked her nails down his spine, making his stomach cramp with hunger. Her fingers then crept between their bodies to fondle him intimately. In return, his hand slipped between her thighs. He found her hot and ready. When she reached climax, he licked the smooth arch of her neck in slow, swirling strokes, without piercing the skin.

  After she caught her breath, Britt said, “Why didn't you drink? I hope it isn't something ridiculous like penance.”

  Something like that, perhaps. “I simply wanted to—give, once, without taking.”

  “Oh, Roger!” She hugged him, her head on his shoulder. “I don't think of it as taking. I can't stand to feel your hunger. Let me give you what you need.”

  “We don't have to stay on the floor, you know. The bed is freshly made.”

  Britt scanned his face with feigned concern. “Are you sure you can hold out long enough to get there?”

  With a growl he swept her up in his arms and carried her to his room, pausing only to fling back the satin sheets on the king-size bed before laying her down. When he stretched on top of her, and she wrapped her long legs around his, he sensed her trembling on the verge of another orgasm. The nip of his teeth sent her over the edge. The rich elixir in her veins flowed into him, its healing warmth renewing every cell of his body. With their thoughts entwined as tightly as their bodies, he felt her astonishment at how piercingly sweet her blood tasted to him.

  At last, satisfied, he stopped lapping at the tiny incision and laid his head on her breast. “Good?” she murmured.

  He stirred to kiss a still-erect nipple. “Need you ask? But too fast—I'm sorry.”

  Her fingers tightened in his hair. “Will you quit apologizing! You've got hours to do it over until you get it right.”

  “Mmm,” he agreed with a drowsy smile. “Though I'm not sure that's good for you.”

  “I've had a week away from you to build up my reserves, and I couldn't stand to hold back.”

  He ached with gratitude for her ardor. How could he ever have risked such a treasure?

  Britt's next remark startled him out of a near-doze. “Roger—you love me.”

  He opened his eyes. “I do? Are you quite certain?”

  “Absolutely,” she said, laughing softly. “I know love when I feel it.”

  “Interesting.” After pondering her statement for a minute, he said hesitantly, afraid of the answer, yet longing for it, “And do you love me?”

  She buried her face in his neck and giggled weakly until she could collect herself to answer. “I've loved you for ages—I think since the first night we went to bed together.”

  “Then why didn't you say anything?

  “Without being sure of how you felt? Even we liberated women have our pride.”

  After a moment's contented silence, he said, “Do you want to get married?”

  Britt understood at once that he was asking for information, not making a request. “No, we have no reason to. You don't need a live-in cook and housekeeper, and I don't need financial support. We're both used to living on our own, so why fix what isn't broken? And think of the ghastly things marriage would do to our tax bracket!”

  “I agree,” said Roger, “primarily because if we lived together, my self-control would be strained too severely. With that constant temptation, I couldn't keep away from you.”

  She nestled against his side, one arm draped over his chest. “Anyway, we're united at a deeper level than any ritual could accomplish, aren't we? In the sense that matters most, weare married.”

  He held her close, utterly fulfilled and secure for the first time in his life. And yet, recalling the anguish that had torn him less than an hour before— “So this is love,” he said thoughtfully. “This is what the poets and novelists glorify, what the sappy popular songs go on about?”

  “This is it.”

  His arms tightened around her. “Ithurts."

  “Welcome to the human race.”

  * * * *

  “RECENT STUDIES Of The Long-Term Effects Of Antidepressant medication clearly demonstrate...”

  Roger frowned at the flashing cursor on the computer screen. For the moment he couldn't recall what those studies were supposed to demonstrate. This article wasn't going well. He hoped to build some coherent conclusions from the various antidepressant trials he had performed on Alice and other patients. Worries over Sandor's recent low profile distracted him, though. Well aware of what lay behind the renegade's compulsion to kill, Roger knew he hadn't simply stopped.

  He wished he could believe Sandor had left Maryland.No, you don't, he admonished himself.Not if it means spending the rest of your life wondering where he'll strike next. It struck him as ominous that the only sign of the murderer since before Thanksgiving had been the dreams Alice Kovak, now Britt's patient, reported to her—nightmares of rending teeth and crimson eyes.

  Roger was also distracted by a vague unease, emanating from Britt, that crept through the lower levels of his mind. For the past week or so, something had been troubling her, separate from their concern about Sandor. Though Roger sensed some problem building toward crisis, she hadn't yet confided in him. Doubtless her preoccupation centered on a patient, and confidentiality prevented her from consulting Roger, except in general terms, without permission. And he wouldn't consider violating her mental privacy.

  Still, it was almost impossible to work with her unexplained distress nagging at him. He checked his watch. After ten p.m. on a Thursday night—why wasn't she asleep? The barrier of five miles and the Severn River didn't keep him from sensing her anxiety. Verbal telepathic communication over that distance took more effort, but he decided to call anyway. Even if she wouldn't reveal specifics, she might accept his comfort. He figuratively turned up the gain on his mental output.

  “Britt, what is the matter with you?” The texture of the thought came out more im
patient than he'd intended.

  He sensed hesitation before she replied. “Headache, cramps, backache—the usual.”

  “"The usual” makes you tired and cranky, not anxious. You're holding out on me.”

  “Not by choice. I can't tell you anything at this time.”

  “At least you admit there's something to tell. That's better.”

  “Stop talking as if I'm obligated to consult you on every problem that pops up. If I want your help, I know when to ask.” The uncharacteristic outburst reminded Roger of her bodily discomfort.

  “I didn't mean to imply that, or to harass you. You know your pain affects me. I wish I could help you with the physical part of it.”

  Her tone lightened. “You can. Come right over.”

  He steeled himself against her mental seduction. “Not until tomorrow night.”

  “This “weekend only” rule is your self-imposed limitation, not a law of nature.”

  The deeper their intimacy became, the less Britt wanted to hold back. Roger insisted that their mutual attraction made rules, however arbitrary, essential to preserve her health. He knew how wise they were to continue living apart; constant proximity would have made moderation impossible. “I wouldn't enjoy taking you to the ER and trying to explain why you need a transfusion.”

  “Well, this weekend that hazard won't exist. I'll probably start by tomorrow night.”

  Roger looked forward to that. He rejoiced that three nights per month he could enjoy Britt in a mode not only harmless but beneficial. Disturbing images flowed into his mind; he attempted to block them.

  Feeling his resistance, Britt undermined it by projecting a sensual fantasy of her own. “I hope you're going to be very hungry this time tomorrow.”

  “Why do you like torturing me?”

  “Because you're so easy to get a rise out of that it's irresistible.” She added with a feigned sigh, “Oh, all right, I guess I have an obligation to calm you down. Let's see, I can't suggest that you think of blizzards and snowdrifts. You'd probablylike that. Think about the boardwalk in Ocean City at high noon on the Fourth of July.”

  “That's enough to kill anyone's appetite.”

  “As far as I've seen,nothingkills your appetite.” The flirtatious overtones disappeared from her mental “voice.” “Oops, my phone's ringing. Later, colleague.”

  Roger turned back to the computer. Unable to concentrate on the interrupted article, he picked up renewed anxiety and agitation from Britt. A tentative overture brought a rebuff; she didn't want to be distracted. Giving up on work for the night, Roger saved his file and tried to settle in the living room with a horror novel (outlandish enough to provide comic relief from his own peculiar adjustment problems), a Bach fugue, and a glass of milk. Stephen King's latest banquet of gore, however, couldn't compete with the subliminal echoes of Britt's unhappiness. Roger actually relaxed when the telephone rang twenty minutes later.

  “Yes, colleague? Why are you calling this way?”

  “I'm phoning from a police van,” Britt said. “It would look kind of strange if you showed up without anybody seeing me call you.”

  “Police? Where? What's going on?”

  “Don't panic yet,” she said. “You may need the panic button later. I'm at a patient's home. She's locked herself in with a Luger, threatening to shoot herself or anybody who breaks in.”

  The news didn't slow Roger's pulse. “She?”

  “Alice Kovak.”

  “Good God, my sins have come back to haunt me.”

  “Afraid so,” Britt said. “She won't talk to me; she wants you. Look, I'll tell you the details when you get here. You know where the house is?”

  “I could hardly forget, unfortunately. On my way.”

  Outside, a weepy drizzle misted the cool night air. In the car he seethed over the prospect of talking Alice out of selfdestruction yet again.So she's still obsessed with me. How long will I have to keep paying for that?

  After crossing the Severn and South Rivers, then driving through Edgewater to the Kovaks’ semi-rural neighborhood, Roger caught sight of revolving red and blue lights as soon as he turned onto their road. The police had done a good job of discouraging curiosity seekers. Aside from family, the only civilians present were a local TV news team. Roger gritted his teeth in exasperation at the sight of the reporters.

  He pulled up behind Britt's new car, a forest-green Porsche adorned (or disfigured, in his opinion) by a Red Cross bumper sticker proclaiming, “Blood donors make better lovers.” She broke away from the huddle of police officers in the front yard and ran to him, her thoughts welcoming him with the embrace they couldn't physically share in public. “Come on, we'll talk in my car.” In the front seat of the Porsche, she said, “Alice resented your turning her case over to me, but I thought she'd worked through that. Obviously I was wrong.”

  He strove to keep from responding to her distress and thereby augmenting it. “Specifics?”

  “She's still infatuated with you,” said Britt. “In the past couple of weeks you've been the main topic of every session with her.”

  “Somehow I'm not flattered.”

  “Nor should you be.” Britt's tone held no shadow of condemnation; she'd forgiven Roger and was concerned only with the patient. “You told me yourself that the attraction isn't personal. But do the aftereffects of a vampire attack usually last this long?”

  “Not in a balanced personality. Not without encouragement. But Alice, on top of everything else, nearly got killed by Sandor. No wonder she became obsessed with the only vampire in reach. I'd hoped transferring her to you would cure that.”

  “Well, it didn't work.”

  “If I needed any further reason to avoid preying on patients—” He sighed heavily. He'd remained faithful to Britt except for that one lapse, but it only took one. “Colleague, why didn't you tell me this sooner?”

  “Aside from the confidentiality factor, I didn't want to worry you.”

  “Didn't want to worry—!”

  “There's worse,” Britt said. “She's conceived the notion that you're a vampire.”

  Roger stared at her, beyond surprise. “I trust you've tried to convince her otherwise.”

  “Sure. In a non-directive way, naturally.”

  “Naturally. The hypnosis I used should have blotted out Alice's memory of our encounters, but the unconscious works in mysterious ways.” He took a deep breath and opened the car door. “I may as well go talk to her.”

  Alice's family hovered beside the front walk, as near the house as the police would allow. Roger sensed the layman's awe of a physician emanating from Mrs. Kovak. “I don't know what's gotten into her, Doctor. Last night she got out of bed and disappeared for hours. And now this!” Her wide eyes beseeched Roger for an instant solution.

  Resentment from Mr. Kovak and Peter, especially the younger man, scalded Roger. “Can't figure out why she's so set on talking to you,” Mr. Kovak muttered. Peter simply scowled.

  Roger turned on the father. “You knew your daughter had suicidal tendencies. Where did she get the gun?”

  Taken aback, Mr. Kovak retreated a step and said less belligerently, “My Luger—it was in the top of the closet. Look, I didn't think Alice even knew I had it.”

  “Haven't you learned she is not a fool? Her introverted personality doesn't mean that she doesn't observe things.”

  Britt silently interrupted, “This isn't the time, Roger. Ripping into them now is pretty callous.”

  “You may be right. But I don't have much patience with human stupidity.”

  “No worse than some examples of vampire stupidity I could mention.”

  The tart flavor of Britt's rebuke silenced Roger. Unable to bring himself to apologize to Mr. Kovak, he introduced himself to the police officer who seemed to be in charge, a tall, middle-aged black with a Marine-style haircut. The officer gave him a preoccupied handshake and said, “Just a second while I let the girl know you've arrived.”

  Taking a battery-o
perated megaphone from a subordinate, he blared, “Miss Kovak, Dr. Darvell is here. If you'll open the door for him, I give you my word nobody else will try to get in.”

  Silence. After a few seconds, Roger heard the click of the front door lock. He walked onto the porch and took a moment to focus his attention, so that the tumultuous emotions of the spectators faded into background noise. From inside, he felt the girl's anger and fear like a hovering cloud of smoke.

  Slowly turning the knob, he inched the door open. “Dr. Darvell?” said Alice's voice, shrill with tension. “Come in.”

  Chapter 19

  HE STEPPED INSIDE, pulling the door shut behind him and locking it. The room was unlit. Good—Roger's night vision gave him an advantage. Alice could see him by the glow from the street lamp just outside the picture window, but she probably couldn't distinguish details. She sat in an armchair across the room near the television, cradling the Luger. She raised the muzzle as Roger took a step closer.

  “Stay back, Doctor. You can sit on the couch.”

  Moving with exaggerated slowness, he did so. Her appearance as well as her voice showed how distraught she was. Her long, blonde hair was tangled, and her eyes continually darted from Roger to the window and back. Her thin legs, clad in cut-off jeans, were tucked under her, prepared to leap.

  He suppressed a surge of annoyance at the sight of her. Her fixation on him wasn't her fault, after all. He had brought it on by his own reckless self-indulgence.

  Uncomfortable memories of the second encounter, the one that had nearly killed her, flashed through his mind as Alice held the gun on him.More dangerous than a bottle of tranquilizers. He assumed a relaxed pose, arms along the back of the couch, both hands in sight. The air of nonchalance, he hoped, masked his inward stance of taut alertness. “Why did you want to speak to me, Alice?”