Child of Twilight

by Margaret L. Carter

  Roger gratefully shed that concern for the time being. Slipping into the master bedroom without waking Britt, he took a quick shower. Awareness of her waiting in his bed made his heart race. Naked, he returned to the dark bedroom and lay down next to Britt.

  She slept on her side, facing away from him. Turning back the bedspread and satin sheet, he ran his hand lightly down her side and the swell of her hip. Contact with the silky fabric of her long-sleeved nightgown, warmed by her body, made the cilia in his palm tingle. She sighed in her sleep but didn’t wake. As always, he was moved by the way she trusted him so deeply that his touch didn’t disturb her. Right now, though, his arousal didn’t leave much room for tender reflections.

  He would have let her sleep, considering the short time left until they had to get up, if she hadn’t spent most of the night deliberately goading him. Still, he paused to savor the peaceful sound of her breathing. So gently that she remained unaware, he slipped into her mind. Having noticed the REM flickers of her eyelids, he wasn’t surprised to find her dreaming.

  An erotic dream, clearly adopting its manifest content from Claude’s film. Roger shared Britt’s vision of a tower room with lightning flashing through the panes of stained glass windows. The two of them were locked in an embrace while blatantly symbolic thunder pealed around them. He smiled at her idealized image of him, draped in a crimson-lined black cape, more imposing than he ever managed to be in real life. As in most dreams Britt’s picture of herself was blurred.

  This dream was disturbingly tactile. Britt’s unconscious mind recreated the painless sting of his teeth grazing her throat, the lapping of his tongue, and the rising tension at the core of her desire. He withdrew from direct immersion in her thoughts and skimmed over her body again. One of her hands was nestled between her thighs. He insinuated his own fingers there to caress her liquid heat.

  The explosion of her climax woke her. Sharing the ecstatic convulsion sent waves of thirst shuddering over him. He held back, though, giving her his full attention. Breathing hard with the aftershocks, Britt turned in his arms to kiss him. She tasted so delicious that he could hardly resist taking her. But he didn’t want to rush the consummation while she was still mostly asleep. Through the cloth he felt her erect nipples against his chest, a sensation that made him ravenous for more.

  He tugged at the hem of the gown. “Take off the damned thing.”

  She let him help her out of it. “What about Gillian?” she whispered, nibbling his ear.

  “Asleep. She can’t possibly hear us.”

  “Dead to the world?” Britt murmured. The touch of her bare skin inflamed his sensitized nerves. “You’re still cold,” she said.

  “You warm me, then.”

  She rose to the challenge with her customary enthusiasm. Being half-human, Roger could attain more than the typical male vampire’s partial erection under direct stimulation. Conditioned by years of intimacy with Britt, he became fully hard under the intoxicating caresses of her mind and her fingers. She rolled on her back, inviting him to enter her, both of them delighting in the fact that since he didn’t ejaculate, they could remain coupled as long as they wished. But his pleasure wasn’t concentrated in that union. Rather, every cell of his body vibrated to the rhythm of her blood. When he pierced her throat, sensation radiated from that point throughout his being and hers, submerging both of them in a tide that flowed on and on until exhaustion forced them to stop.

  He lay on his back, her head on his shoulder, his arm holding her close. “Rate it from one to ten?” she murmured, already fading into sleep.

  He’d long since discovered that she really wanted an answer, rather than his automatic response of, “Off the scale.” He said, “Five or six. It’s better when we’re both fully awake.”

  “Mmm,” she agreed. “Poor Gillian—too young for this.” She cuddled closer to him and drifted back to sleep.

  Within a couple of minutes he joined her.

  THE DESK CLERK at the Holiday Inn didn’t enjoy renting a room at four a.m. Camille gave him a ten-dollar bill in compensation and retreated to the room as quickly as she could manage. She whistled under her breath as she deposited the suitcase on its stand, got out a bottle of sherry to pour herself a drink, and flopped across the bed with the glass and her purse. So far, so good. Was it possible they weren’t bothering to chase her at all?

  Don’t count on that. Concentrate on getting the job done.

  She dug out of her purse the local map she’d bought at an all-night gas station up the road. She unfolded it and set down her glass to open the nightstand drawer. Phone book. She flipped the yellow pages to “Physicians.” With an indrawn breath of satisfaction, she zeroed in on the name she wanted. After a minute or two of searching the map’s street index, she grinned and folded it open to the relevant sector.

  All right! It starts tomorrow. She headed for the shower, humming “Mademoiselle from Armentierees” to the empty room.

  Chapter Four

  GILLIAN WOKE HUNGRY. Nothing unusual in that; with adolescence, her appetite had become a constant inner demand. After a long, muscle-rippling stretch of arms and legs, she turned to look at the digital clock beside the guest room bed. Not quite two o’clock. She hissed in frustration at the dull hours ahead before Roger would come home to take her out for a meal.

  Or maybe Claude. She liked her father’s brother. Roger himself wasn’t bad, either. At least he hadn’t threatened to turn her over to Volnar yet. Gillian lay still for a minute, absorbing the atmosphere of the house. Though she’d been left alone in this unfamiliar place, she felt safe here. The air smelled cool and clean. Heavy green drapes dimmed the room for her visual comfort. Efficient insulation muted the occasional traffic sounds from outside. Within the townhouse, only the purr of the refrigerator and furnace cycling underscored the silence.

  Gillian dressed, thinking about what she might find to appease her hunger until evening. Roger must keep milk in the house. Checking the refrigerator, she noticed a package of raw liver. Was she hungry enough to drink it pureed in broth, as she had last night? She decided not. As she’d said at the time, she didn’t like the stale, dead taste of supermarket meat, though she had to accept it once in a while. She did squeeze juices from the liver into a mug, which she heated briefly in the microwave before gulping down the nearly tasteless contents. After that she warmed a cup of milk and took it into the living room to drink in front of the television.

  On the coffee table she found a note from Roger: “You’re welcome to read, watch television, or use the computer. I’ve left the chess program next to the hard disk. Remember to clean up after yourself. If the paper carrier comes to collect before I get home, pay him ten dollars. If the telephone rings, let the answering machine handle it. Do not under any circumstances leave the house. I’ll be home shortly after five.” Under the note was a ten dollar bill.

  Good enough, she hadn’t planned to go outside anyway, not in daylight. She tuned the TV to her favorite soap opera. Since she hadn’t watched it in several days, there should have been time for the plot to advance. Maybe today Lila would get around to telling Brad she was pregnant with her cousin Lance’s child. Gillian still couldn’t comprehend why any man except her brother or uncle would care about a woman’s pregnancy. Ephemerals were—different. Intriguingly different. Gillian’s limited contact with them so far had only whetted her appetite for deeper firsthand knowledge. Judging from her disastrous experiments with the professor and those boys, playing with their minds could be a delicious pleasure, if only she knew how to control her powers. Claude would start teaching her tonight. She looked forward to that.

  With only half her attention on the TV drama, she sipped the milk. Nourishing but far from satisfying. The memory of her attackers’ lust and fear made her salivate. I’m too young for human blood, she reminded herself. She knew she ought to be grateful for her youth, which kept feeding simple and safe, without the complications of hunting intelligent prey. Sometimes, though, cur
iosity made her impatient. Four years, perhaps, she’d have to wait to find out what ephemerals tasted like. Or possibly longer, with her hybrid genes. She’d heard from Volnar that Roger hadn’t tasted human blood until he was past twenty years old. But maybe he just hadn’t recognized the need before then. And Gillian had only half his complement of human DNA; surely she wouldn’t have to wait that long.

  Curled up on one of the living room love seats, she couldn’t help noticing the lingering traces of Britt Loren’s scent. To a lesser degree, the presence of Claude’s pet—bond-mate—Eloise clung to the room, too. Gillian’s empathic perception had already developed far enough that she knew either one of the women would leap at the chance to feed her. Roger and Claude wouldn’t allow that contact, of course, and Gillian’s better judgment agreed with them. Still, she could fantasize and wish the situation were different.

  Only fantasize. She sighed, watching over the rim of her mug as, on the TV screen, Lila and Brad flung crystal and china from the dinner table at each other. Never once had Volnar allowed Gillian to watch him feed. Oh, she’d seen the preliminaries, the stalking, the seduction. But he’d always barred her from witnessing the climax. How could she learn what to do if she couldn’t observe?

  When the soap opera ended, she rinsed out her cup and switched the TV to cartoons. She read Roger’s Wall Street Journal at the same time, with little comprehension; Volnar hadn’t taught her much about finance yet. After a half hour, the program gave way to a G.I. Joe episode she’d already seen. She changed the channel to public TV and watched until four. Growing restless, she decided to try out the computer chess game Roger had mentioned.

  She’d just booted up the computer when the doorbell rang. Unfastening the deadbolt, she opened the door to face a teenage boy, about her height, with blond-streaked brown hair. To judge from the wind-reddened face above his bulky jacket, he was built lean.

  He shoved a folded newspaper into Gillian’s hands. “Hi. Collecting.” He fumbled with a small spiral notebook. “Hey, I’ve never seen you here before. Dr. Darvell didn’t move or something, did he?”

  Collecting? Oh, yes, Roger’s note mentioned paying the paper carrier. “No, I’m visiting him.” Her brain ticked over rapidly. No doubt Roger wouldn’t want the curiosity she would excite if she mentioned her true status. “We are second cousins.” Considering the inbreeding that the vampires’ low population made inevitable, that could even be true. “Please come in, you must be cold.” Not only that, the open door was letting in an uncomfortable glare from the snow.

  Once the door was shut, the boy trailed after Gillian into the living room. Welcoming the break in her tedious afternoon, she wished she could keep him for a while. “My name is Gillian. And yours?”

  “Uh—Alex.” He was looking around, openly curious about the furnishings as well as apparently puzzled about Gillian.

  She made sure her fingers touched his when she handed him the ten-dollar bill. “Alex.” She held his eyes with hers. “Sit down and rest for a few minutes.”

  “No way, I got a bunch more stops to make.” But he automatically obeyed her.

  Gillian tingled with pleasure at his instant submission. These creatures were so easy! Lightly her fingers brushed his. “Your hands are cold. Why don’t you wear gloves?”

  “Too much trouble, counting change and messing with the receipt book.”

  “Let me warm them.”

  “Hey—” The word of protest trailed off into a gusty sigh.

  Sitting next to him, she stroked the backs of his hands to coax the blood to the surface. At once his pulse quickened. By the glow of his aura she sensed warmth suffusing his skin. “Tell me, Alex, what do you like to do?”

  He shrugged without pulling back from her touch. “I’m into baseball, but that doesn’t start until March. And I like D and D.”

  “What is that?”

  Sinking deeper under her spell, he answered in a dazed monotone. “Dungeons and Dragons, Vampire the Masquerade. Fantasy role-playing games. Some of those computer fantasy games are pretty cool, too.”

  “I also enjoy computer games. Which do you play?”

  He mumbled an unintelligible answer. Dreamily fixed on her eyes, he forgot to keep talking.

  Rather than question him further, Gillian basked in the heat he radiated. She felt the stirring inside him in response to her silent urgency. She opened herself to his emotion but felt balked, for it didn’t flow rapidly enough. An inspiration from television dramas struck her. She leaned over to touch her lips to his.

  At first he stiffened in surprise. She gentled him with her hands until his mouth relaxed. His tongue flicked hers, and a low moan escaped him. Thirstily she absorbed his rising passion. So this is what ephemerals are for!

  After uncounted minutes of that refreshing stream, over the pounding of his heart she heard a muffled protest. She woke to the realization that she was melting, shimmering—

  Oh, no, not now!

  She drew back from the boy’s mouth and forced her transformation under control. Shocked out of his trance, he gaped at her in disbelief. Gillian placed her hands on either side of his head and gazed into his eyes. “Don’t be afraid. You didn’t see that. You came inside, I paid you, and you left. Nothing else happened. I paid you, that is all you remember. Now you may leave.”

  With relief she saw the veil descend over him again. “Right, I have to get going,” he parroted.

  She escorted him to the door and bolted it behind him. A nervous impulse made her secure the chain, too. Her pulse still raced. She spent a moment taming it. When her body’s agitation subsided, she returned to the computer. Maybe a challenging chess match would distract her from the hunger that still burned in the pit of her stomach. Playing with the boy had only teased her appetite.

  Maybe I should try to resist the temptation until I learn more control. That was the echo of Volnar’s pronouncements. Irritated with this evidence of his sway over her, Gillian shook off her tantalizing thoughts and focused on the game.

  Hardly had she advanced her second pawn when the doorbell rang again. Surely Alex wouldn’t come back. Hadn’t she wiped his short-term memory well enough?

  At the door she unfastened the deadbolt without removing the chain. What she saw out front made her momentarily forget to breathe. Her highway benefactor, Professor Greer.

  “What do you want?”

  He gave her a smile meant to be disarming. “You don’t have to be afraid of me, Gillian. I just came to return your backpack.” He held it up.

  “How did you find me?”

  “You gave me the address, remember?” So she had; the information hadn’t seemed important to guard at the time. “I’ve been sitting in my car across the street for a couple of hours, waiting for you to show up. Thought you might still be on the road. Then I saw you open the door for the paper boy. Thank God nothing happened to you—hitchhiking’s dangerous.”

  “What do you want with me?” she repeated.

  “Just to talk,” he said. “Aren’t you going to let me in? I can’t give you this with the chain on.”

  The panic inspired by her first glimpse of him faded. She sensed excitement and curiosity in the man, but no hostility. And she could handle him better if she didn’t try to talk through a barely-open door. “Very well.” She unhooked the chain and stepped aside.

  When he handed her the backpack, she tossed it in a corner of the foyer rather than keep it to encumber her. “Thank you. Now you had better leave.”

  “Don’t I get any reward?” He spread his hands in appeal. “I’d just like to ask you some questions. A short interview. Gillian, you must have an inkling of how much meeting a creature like you means to me.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Volnar had advised her that human beings tended to edit anomalous experiences to fit into the “normal” laws of nature, provided further evidence didn’t arrive to reinforce the abnormal perception. In any case admitting what she was couldn’t help, an
d denial couldn’t hurt.

  “Gillian, Gillian—I know what I saw. You changed shape before my eyes. How do you do it? What are you, exactly?”

  She folded her arms. “A twelve-year-old girl, as you see.”

  “You can’t convince me I imagined that. I wasn’t stoned, and nobody goes nuts on the spur of the moment.” He took a step toward the living room. “Couldn’t we sit down to discuss this?”

  Gillian blocked his path. “No.” Buoyed by the residual high from her interlude with Alex, she felt confident of manipulating Greer. She stared into his eyes. “There’s nothing unusual about me. Go away and forget you ever came here.”

  For a second the man’s eyes glazed over. Then he shook his head and shifted his gaze to a point beyond her left shoulder. “Damned if I will! So you have some kind of hypnotic power—fascinating. I doubt you’re strong enough to make it work on me if I resist. After all, you’re just a kid, whatever else you are.”

  That evaluation stung. She grabbed his arm. “Look at me!”

  “Not a chance. Why not make this easy on both of us? Give me the information I want, and I’ll leave. Don’t worry, when I include you in my next book, I won’t print anything that could betray you. I’ll disguise the circumstances and your name.”

  She heard strain in his voice and saw a shift in the hue of his aura with that last sentence. He was lying; he had no intention of protecting her identity. A picture of the caged tigers at the National Zoo flashed into her mind. Fear welled up to choke her. Her hand squeezed harder on his forearm, to no effect. He wore gloves and a heavy coat, preventing the skin-to-skin contact that would have made controlling him easier.

  At that moment Roger and Britt walked in.

  The gust of cold air that entered with them cleared Gillian’s head. After all, what could Greer do to her if she refused to speak? He had no way of forcing her.

  Roger grasped the professor’s shoulder and spun him around. “Who are you, and what the hell do you think you’re doing?”