A Taint in the Blood

by S. M. Stirling

  Inside her head she could hear: Oh, quite unwillingly, chérie. That didn’t need any spooky telepathy.

  For an instant she sat on the bed, winded and gasping. After shock came a wave of anger; to have something like this hanging in your bedroom, exposed to all the possible accidents . . .

  The BlackBerry beeped at her, a half-hour warning. She fumbled at it until it came up with a map of the route to the clinic, and ran—that was another thing she could do well, even in sandals—out into the hallway, down a service stair, out a rear entrance, down a long pathway, out through a boundary wall and gate into what looked like a smallish town or large village tucked under the hill where the casa grande sat. It wasn’t even far enough to raise much of a sweat, not in the cool springlike weather of a fine February day in the California lowlands.

  The clinic wasn’t quite what Ellen would have expected; well-equipped, cheery, an efficient-looking receptionist, a waiting room with the usual magazines and a TV . . . Even the smell was nicer than usual, with flower-and-damp-earth scents wafting through an open window to cut the standard ozone and disinfectant. She had just enough time to stop breathing deeply before:

  “Dr. Duggan will see you next, Ms. Tarnowski.”

  A renfield doctor willing to sell his soul to the Devil, she thought, as David Cheung passed her on his way out, with a smirk and a nod and a fresh dressing on his neck. Or maybe . . . he’s more like a vet?

  The doctor turned out to be a her, a pleasantly plain middle-aged woman with a slight Scottish burr and a pile of faded ginger hair pulled back severely. She smiled ironically at Ellen’s relief as she ushered her into the examination room. That looked conventional too, if upscale, except for the two replica skeletons in opposite corners. One of the skeletons looked a little odd in ways she couldn’t name.

  There were even family photos over the desk, a Chinese man and three striking hapa children, two girls and a boy, at various ages up to the mid-teens.

  Connections, she thought. Everyone’s story has connections that spin out until they’ve got the whole world in the web. How did . . . they . . . buy or knuckle her? Why’s she working at Hacienda Literally Sucks?

  “Dr. Fiona Duggan,” she said, and shook hands, a brisk no-nonsense gesture.

  From her expression she guessed her new patient’s thoughts.

  “Everyone at this clinic is a doctor, Ms. Tarnowski, and a good one. But even if we were no professionals . . . lass, you’re the safest person for miles around. Think it through.”

  Oh. Don’t mess with the tiger’s bone.

  “Bet there’s a low crime rate here,” she said slowly. “Unauthorized crimes at least.”

  “Ye’d win that wager.”

  A thought struck her. “Except murder-suicides?”

  A grim smile. “Here, murder or any other serious crime is a form of suicide. A slow, painful form.”

  “Oh.”

  “If it will make you feel better, I was recruited as a second-year medical student in Edinburgh with—I’ll say it myself—brilliant marks. And incurable pancreatic cancer; a classic rapid-onset adenocarcinoma. They offered to make the cancer cells have fatal accidents.”

  “You accepted.”

  “And so would you, I’d wager.”

  “Why do they need a doctor, then?”

  She smiled. “The Power is powerful, but it needs knowledge to apply. Imagine them trying to correct your humors . . . only, we don’t have humors. We have cells. And there are accidents and traumas and plenty of things too small for their attention. Let’s get started.”

  The only difference between this and the last exam she’d had in Santa Fe was the state-of-the-art equipment; instant blood analysis with only a tiny pinprick sample, just for starters, and the new thinbar scanners that could do things only massive hospital units had been able to manage a few years before. She dressed and sat on the edge of the examining table as the doctor finished tapping at her keyboard.

  “Well, Ms. Tarnowski, as no doubt your previous doctor has told you, you’re in excellent health. I wish all my patients showed your degree of care with diet and exercise. You might be interested to know that you’re also an eighteen-point-nine on the Alberman Scale.”

  “Alberman?”

  “The test for nocturnus genes—the ones linked to the Power, of which there are between seventy-five and one hundred, mostly recessives. Average is around twelve percent.”

  “Ah . . . thanks, I guess.”

  “Aye. You should be thankful. There are behavioral complications with a twenty-to-forty result that often have unfortunate consequences.”

  “Unfortunate?”

  “Gilles de Rais. Stalin, Hitler, King Leopold of the Congo Free State . . . Or Joan of Arc.”

  “Joan of Arc was unfortunate?”

  “Think of how she ended.”

  “Oh.”

  “Now, it’s your special health circumstances we’ll move on to next.”

  Special health circumstances! she thought. I suppose everyone needs euphemisms.

  “You’ve been subject to three feeding attacks so far, correct? Typical attack bites on the inner right elbow, the inner left knee, and the smaller one on the left hand.”

  “Right. None of them seem . . . infected, or anything. Just slightly discolored.”

  “Nor will they be. Homo sapiens nocturnus—”

  “Wha’?” Ellen said.

  She snorted and pointed at one of the skeletons. “Them. The Shadowspawn. Which is a ridiculously melodramatic name . . . Their bites heal cleanly. It’s halfway between predation and parasitism, ecologically, and I’ve done some fascinating research . . . Well, another time. There’s also a coagulant which acts when the wound is exposed to air, and a psychotropic element. A drug.”

  “I . . . couldn’t move while she was, um, feeding. I didn’t feel numb or anything, just didn’t want to move.”

  “Yes, standard initial reaction. That effect’s strong, but wears off quickly when the mouth is removed. There’s an addictive euphoric, too, I’m afraid, wi’ a cumulative effect after multiple exposures.”

  She froze. “How addictive?”

  “A bit worse than nicotine.”

  Ellen relaxed, and heard her breath whoosh out. “That’s not so bad.”

  “Mmm, Ms. Tarnowski, nicotine is more addictive than heroin, clinically speaking. The effect on the victim is similar to MDMA, but without the side effects.”

  At Ellen’s blank look, she went on: “Ecstasy is the street name. Intense feelings of intimacy, and sharply diminished fear and anxiety. If you could synthesize it the market would be huge.”

  “Oh, Christ,” she said, hugging her shoulders. “How often . . .”

  “That’s unpredictable. You’ll no’ be her only source of blood, of course; that would be . . . unfortunate. For them the blood itself is an addictive drug, particularly if it’s primed by strong emotion. I’ve not been able to experiment on that side of things as much as I’d like.”

  “The marks aren’t . . .” Ellen said, and made a stabbing gesture with two fingers at the inside of her elbow. “It’s more like a little line with a bit of a curve.”

  There was a ghoulish fascination to the talk; and it might be useful. Something that tickled at the back of her mind said so. Duggan nodded enthusiastically and went to one of the skeletons. She pushed back the upper part of the skull until there was a bony gape and pointed.

  “This is a replica. It’s the maxillary central incisors, d’you see? Advanced so they’re a bit proud and slightly inclined inward. Larger canines would be silly in a human-shaped mouth if you want a clean cut along a vein. These have microserration, so when they’re presented at just the right angle they slice like steak knives; the lips and tongue arrange the flesh so that the feeding bite is verra precise . . .”

  She wrenched herself away from the details and went back to the screen. “Now, there was a sexual assault with at least one of the feeding attacks, correct? From your reaction to
the pelvic exam.”

  Ellen flushed. “Ah . . . yes.”

  And that utterly weird thing in the restaurant, she thought. It’s absurd to be concerned about something like embarrassment now but I’m still cringing at the thought of that.

  “Only some very minor stretching or bruising, so we don’t have to worry about that.”

  “We don’t have to sit on it! I do!”

  “Sorry for the physician’s ‘royal we.’ Any difficulty in walking or urination?”

  “No. Just a bit of a sting when I pee.”

  “I assume the penetration was manual?”

  She thought about that for a moment. “Umm, yes. That’s what caused the chafing feeling, at least. I don’t remember it all.”

  Thank God, she added to herself.

  “Normal with a traumatic memory.”

  She handed over a small container with a tube and applicator inside.

  “Here’s a topical cream. You’re fortunate the attack had that pattern.”

  “I am?” she said, trying to control the rising tone of her voice.

  “Yes,” she said dryly. “The likelihood of a fatal feeding attack is much lower that way. There’s a mutual exchange of blood when they mate among themselves; in small quantities, but always, as far as I know. I’m no’ sure if it’s cultural or instinctual.”

  “Oh.”

  “Try to cooperate as much as you can the next time it happens; that’ll reduce the chance of lesions.”

  “Just lie back, I suppose,” she said dully.

  “No. The other thing that makes a fatal attack more likely is passivity or depression on the part of the victim. For lucies, as the slang here has it—”

  “Where does that come from?”

  “Ah, you’ve no’ read Stoker? You should—if only for a laugh. And the film, the one with Anthony Hopkins chewing the carpet, is even funnier.”

  “I . . . don’t like horror films. They upset me.”

  “Well, you’re in one now. Lucies. Some of them moved on to other positions here. Some have just . . . stayed. And some have died in what I think is probably inconceivable agony.”

  “Slowly and cruelly and beautifully,” she quoted with a shudder.

  “Aye. And that’s no’ even the worst thing that can happen. So . . . well, a doctor can speak frankly. Make the experience of feeding on you as satisfying for our Doña Demonio as possible, because your life does depend on it.”

  “Thanks for the advice,” Ellen said; she could hear the mixture of sincerity and sarcasm in her own voice.

  That was probably unwise, but she couldn’t be strategizing all the time.

  Or I’ll go stark raving mad. This is the sort of advice a horse doctor would give to other horses; don’t fight the saddle and signals or it’s the bit and spurs and whip for you, and the knacker’s yard if you won’t perform at all. I think a lot of these renfields must be crazy. And I bet that they do have a suicide problem.

  The physician smiled. “I’m not easily offended. A doctor can’t afford to be. I’ll help you as much as I can, Ms. Tarnowski, but that isn’t much. I made my choice long ago, and I have a family to think of, as well.”

  A screen-pen pointed at the skeleton. “That’s the world’s dominant subspecies. Not us. Even just in the body they’ve advantages, and there’s no fighting the Power at all, whatever the terrorists say.”

  “Terrorists?”

  “A few madmen.” She scowled. “Killers who’ll murder wholesale, men and women and children. The nocturnus at least have their instincts to blame.”

  That’s interesting. The Resistance? And they think you’re a collaborator, Doctor? How could you fight the Power? With excitement: Could Adrian be in it?

  Duggan shook her head. “If you have severe nightmares or problems sleeping, see me, and I may be able to get permission for a mild sedative. We’ve some good ones.”

  The receptionist stuck her head in. “Your next appointment, Doctor. Ms. Mandelbaum and her daughter; the earache.”

  “Right, that’s you, then, Ms. Tarnowski. Here’s your exercise schedule and a prescription for a dietary supplement. Lots of fluids, mind!”

  Ellen looked down at her new BlackBerry. Lunch, 12:30. You’re not on the menu. This time! and a happy-face symbol with a little blood drooling out of one corner of the semicircle mouth.

  “Oh, that’s just side-splitting,” she muttered to herself. Then: “Get a grip on your thoughts.”

  Which was about like telling yourself not to think of an elephant. The main house was up the hill again, through California-gorgeous gardens only a little subdued for winter, with everything from palm trees to rose pergolas and velvety green lawns and ha-has, brick retaining walls and espaliered lemon trees. It was built in classic Spanish Revival like the town, if in a grander fashion; from the looks at the height of the style’s popularity in the earlier part of the twentieth century, like something out of Santa Barbara’s Montecito district. There were Andalusian towers and red Roman-tile roofs and earth-toned stucco on walls covered in sheets of purple-and-crimson bougainvillea, with colored tile Moorish-style insets over the arched entranceways, and plenty of wrought iron. Inside . . .

  The architecture’s first-class if a bit retro, but my, there’s some interesting stuff here! If you can get over the number that should be somewhere else. At least they’re being taken care of.

  An eclectic selection: old masters, impressionists and post-impressionists, some late-nineteenth-century academics like Leighton, of the type that had become so popular again, Hoppers and Wyeths. One sculpture she longed to examine, just on the suspicion that it actually was Rodin’s Andromeda. All with no particular organization, as if someone or several successive someones who could fulfill every whim had simply put up anything that took their fancy wherever they chose, like an omnipotent version of William Randolph Hearst.

  Which is pretty much what happened, I suspect. Except that everything is good of its kind, if muddled.

  The map function guided her efficiently, and she ended up in a large airy room set up as a lounge-study-office, with bookshelves and big mahogany tables and a comprehensive electronics suite; one wall was glass doors between Romanesque arches, open to the mild afternoon warmth and to the sight of a big bowl-shaped fountain plashing in the court outside. Adrienne was sitting—

  With a little girl on her lap. Oh, ick, please God not . . . No, wait a minute, that child’s the spitting image of her. Has to be a close relative. Couldn’t be hers, could she? And the boy’s as close as a fraternal twin can get. As close as Adrian and Adrienne.

  A Great Dane sat beside the boy; the child had his arm around the beast’s shoulders, and it was nearly as tall as he. It sat looking up at the Shadowspawn woman adoringly and beating its tail on the floor; then it stood, swiveled its barrel head up and came over towards Ellen with tongue hanging and claws clicking on the diamond-pattern buff tiles of the floor. Ellen slowed step by step, then froze.

  This is silly, she thought. It’s just a dog. She’s the dangerous animal in the room!

  The fear didn’t go away. “What’s the matter?” Adrienne asked. “That’s a delightful flash of apprehension there, but why?”

  “Large dogs . . . make me nervous. I was badly bitten once. Sorry. I can’t help it.”

  The Shadowspawn snapped her fingers and pointed, and the dog left after giving her a curious sniff. She relaxed . . .

  And now I can remember I have something to be really frightened of.

  Suddenly she looked after the dog. Shouldn’t it be barking, or going crazy?

  “No, dogs aren’t frightened of us, chérie,” Adrienne said dryly. “That’s Terminators you’re thinking of, which don’t exist.”

  Oh, Jesus, but I wish it was robots!

  Adrienne grinned; Ellen could see the slight difference in the incisors.

  Adrian was always very careful not to bite or scrape me, now that I think back. Even when things got a little rough, or once more than a
little rough. Everyone said “they say they’re sorry but they really aren’t” . . . but I think he was. A special case.

  “I’m sure he was sorry. What exactly was it he did . . . Oh, goodness, but that’s an arresting image! You might have smothered! Not to mention spraining your neck. You and I must try something analogous sometime.”

  She felt her face go crimson. Then she saw what the little girl was doing; she had her hands on the table, cupped as if sheltering a candle-flame. Within was a tiny yellow feather, like a shaped golden dust-mote . . . and it was bobbing in midair, slowly turning. For a moment she simply stared in wonder. Then her mind lurched:

  If you could do that with a feather, you could do it inside someone, couldn’t you?

  The feather fell, and the girl’s face scrunched up.

  “The air didn’t wanna do it! It slipped. You should teach me some more special Words and I wouldn’t slip. Please, Maman? I don’t ever say them aloud unless you’re there or the cousins or someone.”

  “Nyah, I did it beehhhh-tttter!” her probably-brother said.

  “No, you didn’t, Weasel Two,” Adrienne said decisively. “And I will most certainly not teach either of you more Mhabrogast yet. It’s dangerous if you can’t pronounce it properly.”

  He looked heartbreakingly like a younger Adrian, in shorts and T-shirt and sneakers, his black hair cut in a bowl shape like his sister’s. Her mouth began to droop towards a sob, until Adrienne hugged her and kissed the top of her head.

  “That’s splendid work with the feather. Most children can’t do that for another year or two. What else have you been doing? Besides your lessons, I hope.”

  “Feeding the snake,” the boy said. “Gerbils, mostly. Two. But now it just sleeps.”

  “Well, it won’t want any more for a while. Ellen, these are my demon spawn; Weasel One—Leila—and Weasel Two, Leon. One and Two for order of arrival. Children, this is Ellen. She’ll be living with us now. Don’t you tease her, or you’ll be sorry. Now run along.”

  The girl slipped off her lap. She lifted a strikingly beautiful tow-haired china doll in a frilly dress from the floor beside her mother’s chair. The child looked at it consideringly for a moment, and then up at the stranger.