Child of Twilight

by Margaret L. Carter

  “Wonderful.” Roger was glad his advisor was well out of emotion-sensing range. He sank into the desk chair and exchanged glances with Britt, who had turned away from the computer to listen to the conversation. “Then why aren’t you here instead of dispensing useless warnings by telephone?”

  “I have no quick way of finding the woman. The most direct method of capturing her is to bring her advisor into the area. Camille’s advisor can use their bond to track her.”

  “He’s in New York?”

  “She,” said Volnar. “She has had no contact with Camille in many years and is living in England. I’ve been unable to reach her by phone, so tomorrow I’ll be flying to London to see her in person. She may need some direct persuasion, as she washed her hands of Neil and his sister many years ago. Remember, she was of no help when Neil went rogue.”

  “Meanwhile, what do you suggest I do if Camille descends upon me with a sharpened stake?”

  Eloise, who lacked Britt’s firsthand knowledge of the other end of the conversation, looked up from the monitor in shock.

  “Use your own judgment,” said Volnar, “and see to it that she doesn’t escape before I get there. If she is fool enough to go straight where we’d most expect. And, Roger—this time, try to avoid killing her. It was justified with Neil, but I’d prefer you didn’t let it become a habit.”

  Chapter Five

  THE HARSH WHITE of sunlight on snow, Camille thought, was a small price to pay for the joy of nearing her goal. She spent over an hour parked in a rented car—she had abandoned the stolen one—under the trees across the road from the townhouse complex, waiting for the half-breed to return. She knew he wouldn’t be home during the day. Instead of sleeping he was out working for a living like any ordinary ephemeral. The business address below his residence number in the telephone book confirmed that.

  A momentary surge of anger made Camille lightheaded. Her years in suspended animation hadn’t quenched the fire that smoldered in her when she recalled Neil’s murder. To think that the Council of Elders had vindicated that half-breed, who had no right even to exist, and punished her!

  Now that her revenge was in sight, she didn’t intend to hurry it. If possible she would find some way of devastating Roger Darvell’s life without endangering her own life or freedom. At least not right away. Since she’d broken parole, she had little hope of eluding the elders’ discipline indefinitely. So she would make the most of whatever time she could salvage.

  To begin with, she reconnoitered from her position at the verge of the winter-gray woods. Toward late afternoon she was surprised to see the door of Roger’s townhouse open to the paper boy’s ring. Camille took off her sunglasses and squinted through the slanted sunlight at the figure who answered the door. Not Roger—Camille had never seen the half-breed, but this person was obviously too small and thin for an adult male. A child? The door closed before Camille could sort out the two intermingling auras. With renewed interest she watched until the paper boy left. She noted an unsteadiness in his gait, and examination of the aura of the girl who briefly lingered in the doorway before closing it revealed nonhuman tints.

  A vampire girl? Or, Camille wondered, was her perception distorted by daylight and lack of rest?

  About five minutes later, someone got out of a van parked several hundred feet ahead of Camille’s, opposite the far end of the parking lot. She had noticed the man waiting in that spot ever since she’d arrived but had paid no attention to him. She leaned forward, frowning in concentration, when he walked up to Roger’s door.

  Does his house guest always receive so many visitors when he’s at work? And who is she?

  Camille’s next glimpse of the girl, when she let in the middle-aged, bearded man, confirmed the violet tinge in her aura. Yes, definitely vampiric. And this time Camille noted the auburn hair. Having met Juliette several times, Camille felt confident of her conclusion—this girl had to be Roger’s daughter by Juliette. Anger sent a stab of pain through Camille’s forehead. Outrageous—that mongrel, chosen to breed! She’d hardly believed it when she’d heard that a sensible female such as Juliette had agreed to be impregnated by the half-breed. Not only that, now it appeared that Juliette actually allowed Roger to interfere in the girl’s upbringing.

  So the child lives with him at least part of the time. He must be attached to her, the fool, like a human father.

  That presented possibilities. Camille bared her teeth in anticipation while waiting for the visitor to emerge.

  Instead, a gray Citroen pulled into the townhouse’s parking space, and Roger stepped out. Camille knew him at once, his aura a chaotic blend of human and vampire. A woman arrived with him, but Camille paid little attention to her. Camille’s eyes remained fixed on her target. She felt an absurd sense of loss when he went inside and vanished from her sight.

  A moment later, the bearded man rushed out the door. Rather than watching Roger linger in the doorway, Camille turned her attention to the guest. Obviously an unwelcome one—he exuded a cloud of fear and confusion, and he headed for his car as fast as he could without running. Fear implied some knowledge about the inhabitants of the house. Might he serve her purpose somehow? A nebulous plan started to coalesce in Camille’s mind.

  When the van started up, Camille pulled into the road and followed it. It led her onto Route 50 toward Severna Park. Fifteen minutes later it turned into a motel parking lot in the commercial district on Route 2. Camille parked a few spaces from the van and followed its occupant at a discreet distance into the motel’s cocktail lounge.

  Good, he’s drowning his humiliation instead of going up to his room. She was gratified at the chance to approach him in a public setting, where he wouldn’t have his guard up as he might if she knocked on his hotel room door. To her advantage, this early on a Wednesday evening they were the only customers in the dimly-lit room. After ordering a gin and tonic at the bar, she carried it to the corner table where the man sat alone. He was staring morosely at ten-inch goldfish circling in a giant aquarium on the back wall of the lounge.

  When Camille sat down next to him, he gave her a bemused stare as if trying to figure out whether he’d met her before. “My name is Camille Kincaid,” she said, counting on the introduction to keep his eyes locked on hers. “I think I may be able to help you.”

  “Adam Greer.” He automatically held out his hand, which she clasped a few seconds longer than etiquette dictated. She was rewarded by the way his gaze lingered on her despite the suspicious question that followed. “Help? What are you talking about? Do I know you?”

  “Not yet,” she said, sipping her drink with a sensuous deliberation designed to hold his interest, “but I believe we have a mutual concern with Roger Darvell.”

  “Who? Oh, is that her father’s name?” The befuddled expression crept into his eyes again. No doubt Roger had tried to dispel Greer’s interest in the girl.

  “Yes, I noticed you talking to Roger’s daughter—what is her name?”

  “Gillian.” He sipped his drink—Scotch, by the smell—and stared at the fish.

  “I have an interest in Gillian too, Adam—may I call you Adam? May I ask what your concern with her is?”

  The man’s eyes drifted back to Camille’s face. His doubts of her evaporated under the pressure of her gaze. “Professional. I’m a sociologist, specializing in contemporary legends and weird phenomena. I’ve been publishing on UFOs and Bigfoot and such for years. But I never seriously thought anything like that might be real.” He fortified himself with a gulp of Scotch. “If I could just talk to the girl for half an hour—”

  A glory-mad scientist! Perfect! Camille smiled to herself. She’d require very little paranormal skill to bend Adam Greer’s obsession to her own purposes. “I’ve made a study of such things myself. However, my specialty isn’t exactly aliens. I concentrate on phenomena that mass culture labels supernatural. For instance—have you ever done any research on vampires?”

  He gave a dejected shrug. “I’m fam
iliar with the folklore, and I’ve read the standard real life vampire stories that crop up in all the popular books. Never paid any particular attention to the topic. Have you published in the field?”

  “I don’t write for publication. This is more of an avocation with me.” Her fingers inched across the table to graze his free hand. He didn’t notice the contact. “I’m lucky enough not to have to work for a living. I get along on my investments and travel a lot.” That was true enough, discounting her failure to mention the recent fourteen-year hiatus in her life. “How would you react if I told you Gillian is a vampire?”

  “She didn’t burn to a crisp in the sun.”

  Camille said with a contemptuous smile, “Neither do many of the varieties of folklore vampire, as I’m sure you know.”

  “She doesn’t look dead, either.”

  “She isn’t.” Camille modulated her voice to an intimate murmur that forced Greer to give her his full attention. “She was born as she is. That’s not unknown in European legend, either. I’m sure you’ve heard of the strigoi, which is one variety of hereditary vampire. Gillian is a member of a nocturnal blood-drinking species—the truth behind the legends.”

  Greer straightened up, looking genuinely interested for the first time. “How do you know?”

  “As I said, I’ve spent years investigating this kind of thing. Fortunately for us, they’re rare, and they avoid conspicuous bloodshed. But that makes them all the harder to track down.” She gave him a mental nudge and saw his doubt slide toward acceptance.

  “That—that waif is a vampire?”

  Camille lightly stroked the back of his hand, where it lay unmoving on the table. “Oh, she has human genes—her father is human.” She didn’t want to complicate matters by sending Greer on a rampage after Roger. Besides, Roger belonged to her. “That doesn’t make Gillian any less dangerous, though. She may look like a human girl, but she’s still a predatory beast inside. If you want to dig the truth out of her for that book you’re probably thinking of, you’ll have to make better preparations than just knocking on the door.”

  “You have an idea about that?”

  She glanced around. Several other couples had taken tables in the lounge during the past few minutes. “Adam, why don’t we go up to your room where we can talk about this in detail? I think you’ll find my experience indispensable.”

  He stood up, stepping around the table to hold her chair as she rose. “Indispensable for what, exactly?”

  “For capturing the child. Isn’t that what you want? I can tell you how to catch her and what to do with her.”

  She held Greer’s hand as they walked to the elevator.

  WHEN CLAUDE AND Gillian walked into Roger’s home office, Eloise stood up to greet them. For an instant she stiffened, gripping the back of the chair, her mouth tightening. Claude was at her side in a couple of steps, his arm around her. “You’re in pain, cherie? What is it?”

  “Nothing. Just a cramp, it’s gone now.” She relaxed into Claude’s encircling arm. “Did you have a nice—outing?”

  Roger didn’t need to hear Gillian’s answer. The rosy halo enveloping her proved she had fed well. From the speed of her pulse, she had apparently gone for a run after her meal. Snow was melting in her tousled hair. Roger half regretted he hadn’t abandoned courtesy and joined the hunt.

  Gillian said, “Let me show you the new trick Claude taught me.” Her form shimmered and vanished. Seconds later, she reappeared.

  Eloise clapped. “Way to go!”

  “You must be a fast learner,” said Britt, “or Claude’s an outstanding teacher. I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to that disappearing act.” The invisibility was purely an illusion, a psychic veil, a technique even Roger could handle expertly, though he hadn’t learned so quickly and smoothly as Gillian. But he didn’t make a habit of doing it for recreational purposes.

  Gillian walked over to the computer. “Eloise, may I try your game now?”

  “I guess so, if Roger doesn’t mind.”

  Roger motioned for them to go ahead. After Britt saved the text file, Eloise fished the boxed game, with the title “Dragon’s Bane” and a garish illustration of a monster spouting flames, out of her tote bag. “The goal of this one is to save your land from the dragon who’s destroying villages and devouring the populace.” She handed Gillian the basic instructions and took a stack of diskettes out of the box. “This thing has eight diskettes, so it would be a lot more convenient to install it on the hard disk. Roger?”

  “How much space does it take up?” He scanned the information on the box. “Very well, so long as it’s only temporary.”

  While Eloise loaded the program, Gillian said, “Could you please define cute for me?”

  Eloise gave her a puzzled look. Britt explained Gillian’s concern about whether turtles qualified as cute. “Well, it’s a matter of a complex of traits most all infant mammals share,” said Eloise. “Big heads, large round eyes, round faces, pudgy limbs—it’s supposed to be a set of visual cues to stimulate adults to take care of them. Right, Britt?”

  “That’s the theory,” said Britt. “My sister says that’s God’s way of making sure parents don’t strangle their babies in the first month of life. It carries over to baby animals, too, and even babyish-looking animals like toy dogs. Of course, some people are immune to it, like my colleague here.” She gave Roger a sidelong smile.

  “I am not cute,” said Gillian. She didn’t seem upset by that conclusion.

  “Well, not in the conventional sense,” said Britt. “I kind of like you.”

  Gillian appeared confused by this remark. Probably Volnar hadn’t given her much experience in dealing with compliments.

  “She doesn’t have to be,” Claude said. “Since we directly experience each other’s emotions, our females don’t rely so heavily on visual cues in relating to their young.”

  “Must be nice,” said Eloise, “not to have to guess why the baby’s crying.”

  “Well, you shouldn’t have to,” Claude told her. “You should be able to read our child’s emotions as easily as you read mine, perhaps more so.”

  When she finished transferring the game to the hard disk, Eloise relinquished the chair to Gillian. The girl began sorting out her character’s attributes and weapons. “This is essentially a role-playing game?” she said.

  “Yes, mostly problem-solving, but with some arcade-type sequences,” said Eloise.

  Gillian, who seemed comfortable with this sentence that impressed Roger as an arcane dialect, continued her preparations while the adults watched over her shoulder at varying distances. “Ready to shoot them down in flames?” said Claude when the Gillian’s computer alter ego left the lord’s throne room to begin her quest.

  Gillian answered with her usual serious deliberation, “It is the dragon that may shoot me down in flames, isn’t it?”

  Meanwhile, Claude was rubbing the center of Eloise’s back. “Yeah, maybe I should lie down for a little while,” she whispered to him.

  “Yes, feel free to use the guest room,” Roger said. He watched with some concern as Claude escorted Eloise out of the office.

  “Now, don’t forget to be kind to the creatures you meet on the road,” said Eloise to Gillian from the doorway. “You never know who might offer you magical aid.”

  Roger noticed a trace of blood-scent in the air. A sharp glance from Britt reminded him to squelch his worry.

  A few minutes later, Claude reappeared and beckoned him into the hall. Steering him toward the living room, Claude said in a low voice, “Professional opinion, Rodge—there shouldn’t be cramps at this stage, should there?”

  “In general, no, but it doesn’t necessarily indicate a serious problem. I’m no gynecologist, though.”

  “Eloise doesn’t want to consider seeing a doctor. Insists she must be overtired or suffering from indigestion.”

  Roger didn’t mention the unlikelihood of spotting blood from those causes. Instead he attempted to
project reassurance to Claude, who thanked him insincerely and went upstairs to Eloise.

  [Colleague, what’s wrong?] Britt silently asked from her position on the edge of the desk, where she sat bemusedly watching Gillian’s fingers dance over the keyboard.

  [Eloise is in pain, enough to worry Claude.]

  [Then I’d better talk to her,] Britt responded. [If he’s anything like you, he’ll worry her into nervous prostration and make the discomfort twice as bad.] She got down from her perch and said to Gillian, “Eloise isn’t feeling well. We’re going to take a look at her.”

  “I suggest you continue playing,” said Roger. He didn’t want Gillian overstimulated by pain and blood. Since his tone made the suggestion an order, she nodded without looking up from her game.

  When Roger and Britt entered the guest room, Eloise chopped off a groan and tried to smile. She reclined on her back, pillows supporting her, with an oversized towel under her to protect the sheet. [She isn’t spotting now,] Roger told Britt. [She’s hemorrhaging copiously.]

  [Abdominal cramps and vaginal bleeding in the first trimester? Dear God, that’s bad.] Britt walked around to the opposite side of the double bed from Claude, who stood holding Eloise’s hand. Roger gauged Claude’s inner turmoil not only by his heartbeat and the darkening of his aura, but by the white-knuckled grip that was probably adding to rather than easing his wife’s pain. Britt, hiding her own agitation like the veteran she was, said, “How long has this been going on, Eloise? Since just before Claude and Gillian came in?”

  “Longer. I had twinges off and on for over an hour before that.” The free flow of words and the relaxation of Claude’s handclasp indicated she was between contractions. “Britt, I don’t want to go to a hospital. I won’t!” Her anxiety made Claude’s fear spike. It scraped on Roger’s nerves, already sensitized by the blood smell.

  “You will if you have to,” said Britt, carefully sitting on the edge of the bed. “Tell me the truth, how much are you bleeding?”