“I doubt it,” said Roger. “The resident on duty will simply assume that she lost a large quantity of blood before he examined her.”
Claude stared into his glass. “She did, but over the long term, and not the way they think. Could that have caused it?”
Britt looked blank.
“Could my demands on her body have weakened her so much that she couldn’t carry to term?”
Roger felt Claude’s anxiety like a raw wound in his own flesh. “Put that out of your mind. Anyone who saw her aura could tell she was healthy.”
This time Britt did reach across the table to clasp Claude’s free hand. “Listen, any number of things can cause spontaneous abortions. Most of them are never explained, and they very seldom have anything to do with external trauma. Contrary to the pop image of Scarlett O’Hara falling downstairs, you’d have to practically kill the mother to dislodge the embryo.”
Claude seemed only marginally reassured. He gloomily drained his glass. Shortly Roger poured refills for all of them, and they drank in silence for some time. He felt Britt’s fatigue, but she answered his silent query with a refusal to go to bed and abandon Claude.
Abruptly Roger realized that he’d just heard, but not registered, the front door opening and closing. He stood up to listen, sniff the air, and extend his preternatural perception. He mentally probed the various rooms as he might have flipped through the pages of a book.
“Gillian isn’t in the house.”
Claude roused from his apathetic stillness. “Probably couldn’t stand to be under the same roof with me another minute. That’s understandable.”
Roger saw no point in offering a polite counter-argument. The vibrations of anxiety and grief must feel like searing flame to Gillian’s newly awakened psychic powers. “Confound it, I don’t want her wandering out there alone,” said Roger. “I’d better go keep an eye on her.”
Claude stood up. “No, I’ll find her. I could use the fresh air myself.” When Roger started to protest, he said. “Please. I need to be alone.” He forced a smile. “Lick my wounds, eh?”
After he went out, Roger took Britt’s hand and kissed the tender skin on the inside of the wrist. The throb of her pulse against his lips comforted him, even though he couldn’t act on his hunger at the moment. This is no time to think of yourself, and you shouldn’t need it tonight anyway, he admonished himself. “Colleague, you can see that Claude doesn’t need us right now. Hadn’t you better go to bed now?”
She brushed the back of her hand across his cheek. “What about you? Will you come up soon? You need to get at least a couple of hours’ rest before work.” She sighed. “Thank heaven it’s our last day until New Year’s. This has been a heck of a week.”
Roger couldn’t agree more. “Yes, I’ll try to sleep a little. Soon. Now, you go ahead.”
That was when he heard the gunshot.
Chapter Six
DRIVEN BY CLAUDE’S unshielded agony, Gillian rushed out into the night. Fresh snow swirled in her face. She welcomed the sting of wind on her cheeks and needed no warmth aside from the long-sleeved pullover she wore.
So intimacy with a willing ephemeral didn’t guarantee unadulterated pleasure; observing Claude showed her that truth. With the fading of the exhilaration she’d enjoyed when touching Britt, Gillian’s qualms about the sudden awakening of her psi talent returned. Now that she craved contact with human minds, she couldn’t isolate herself from them, these volatile creatures who assaulted a thirsty predator’s exposed nerves with storms of emotion.
She jogged around the perimeter of the parking lot, an exercise that scarcely altered the rate of her respiration and pulse. Slipping on an icy patch, her legs recovered almost before her brain registered the lapse. Exertion twice as demanding wouldn’t have shut down the turmoil of her thoughts. Could Claude and Roger really provide her the necessary training? Or should she submit to Volnar’s age and authority?
No! Not yet anyway. Not until I’ve proven I can function on my own.
The wind dumped snow from a branch of a young tree onto her head. Gillian shook it out of her hair without breaking stride. How long would Roger let her stay? She couldn’t help noticing that he found her an inconvenience.
On her second lap, at the far end of the lot from Roger’s unit, a van with its motor running and parking lights on penetrated her anxious concentration. The illusion of eyes on the car’s grillwork jolted her into awareness that living eyes were watching her. The driver’s door opened.
Just before he stepped out, Gillian recognized the van as Greer’s. She froze a few yards from him.
He took a cautious step toward her, both hands in the pockets of his heavy, fur-collared jacket. “I just want to talk to you, Gillian,” he said softly. “What’s the harm in that?”
“I already answered you,” she said. “And my father told you to stay away.”
A step closer. “But I’m asking you, not him. Maybe you don’t agree with his rules.”
She stood poised to dash away. “I can’t tell you anything.”
“You could tell me so much if you wanted to.” She sensed the fear behind his wheedling tone and noticed how he avoided her eyes. “You want to learn about people—human beings—don’t you? Let’s learn from each other.” One more step. “I won’t take much of your time.”
Despite the transparent ploy, Gillian was tempted. She’d enjoy testing her strength against a victim who, unlike Britt, was ignorant and unwilling. Hadn’t she learned a lot since confronting Greer the previous afternoon? Watch out, that’s overconfidence. That’s what Claude and Roger would say! Gillian shook her head, impatient with the drift of her thoughts. Had she fled from Volnar to accept someone else’s command so readily?
While she debated with herself, Greer took a final stride toward her. His left hand flung the contents of a small jar in her face.
A stinking powder filled her eyes and nose. Garlic! Retching, she doubled over. Blinded, her windpipe clogged, she heaved up her last meal. The acid of half-digested blood burned her throat. She hardly felt Greer’s fist slamming into her temple.
Greer’s hand clamped on her arm. Through a mist of tears and snow, she saw his other hand holding a gun before her eyes.
“You know I could destroy your brain with a well-aimed bullet,” he whispered. “But I don’t want to hurt you. I just want my questions answered.”
He jerked her arms behind her back. Still paralyzed, she couldn’t resist. Her fogged brain registered with humiliation the fact that he wouldn’t need the gun to keep her helpless. She felt the cold metal of cuffs being fastened on her wrists.
A curse from Greer made her look up. Lightly running footsteps on the snow-sprinkled blacktop—glowing eyes—it took Gillian a second to realize that Claude was bounding toward them.
Greer let go of her to throw open a side door of the van. He picked her up by her sweater to shove her inside. At that moment Claude let out a lupine howl—and changed.
Gillian saw an apparition of gleaming fangs and wings undulating like smoke. She had no way of knowing what Greer saw. The vision horrified the man into an inarticulate gurgle. He whipped up the pistol and fired.
Gillian caught only a glimpse of Claude collapsing to the pavement. The sight paralyzed her with fear. Claude—! Greer flung her into the van, where she rolled over and hit her head on the leg of a bench-type seat. She heard the doors slam, then felt the motor rumble as they roared away.
WHEN ROGER DASHED outside, he saw Claude lying on his side in the middle of the parking lot. He heard a car’s engine out of sight down the road. Pursuing it had to take second place. He turned Claude over. Fresh blood stained Claude’s cream-colored turtleneck shirt.
Roger hastily scanned the facade of the townhouse. No curious neighbors were coming out to investigate or peering through their windows. Fortunately, anyone who heard the shot must have mistaken it for a car backfiring or the sound track of a TV show. He lifted Claude in his arms. Thank God for the ge
ntle snowfall, which would soon hide the traces of blood on the blacktop.
Britt was waiting in the foyer. For once, she’d behaved with proper caution instead of rushing to follow him outside. He carried Claude up to the guest room, where the medical bag still sat open on the dresser. Britt had covered the sheet with clean towels. Roger deposited his brother on the bed face up and stripped off the shirt with Britt’s help.
He was alarmed to note that the wound still bled. Britt immediately applied pressure with a gauze pad, but external measures couldn’t do the job as well as the vampire’s own willpower could. Was Claude too far gone to suppress the flow? Roger sharply spoke Claude’s name. The wounded man’s eyes opened.
Roger tried not to let his relief show. “Listen, Claude, you have to stop the bleeding. You can’t afford to lose any more.”
Claude gave a minute nod. His eyes momentarily unfocused. When they cleared, Roger removed Britt’s hand from the improvised dressing. Blood had stopped leaking from the wound underneath. “Good,” he said. “I didn’t see an exit wound, so we’ll have to probe for the bullet. Can you tell me what happened?”
“Greer. Shot me. Took Gillian.” Claude spoke in a strained whisper.
Britt’s eyes widened in shock. “He’s got her?”
Roger leaned over Claude. “How? Didn’t she resist? Tell me what you saw.”
“Good grief, don’t badger him now!” said Britt. “Can we give him anything for the pain?”
“I don’t know of any drug that wouldn’t be useless or harmful. He’ll have to depend on his own ability to control it.” Roger didn’t bother asking how the patient felt. No sense in belaboring the obvious—pain radiated from Claude like heat from a furnace. “You’ll have to draw on Britt for support.” Roger disliked making this suggestion, but he couldn’t let groundless jealousy cloud his judgment. “Use her as a focus to shut off the sensations. Otherwise you’re likely to experience some discomfort when I remove the bullet.”
Britt scowled at him. “Forget the bedside manner, colleague, it’s not your strong suit. Claude, this is going to hurt like hell unless you let me help you.”
Claude’s mouth twisted in an attempt at a smile. “Well put. All right.”
Britt drew a chair up to the bedside and gazed into Claude’s eyes. He turned his head to focus on her. Roger felt the immaterial pressure on his own nerves lighten with the fading of Claude’s pain. The patient’s breathing slowed and deepened, merging with the rhythm of Britt’s.
Roger silently reminded himself not to project an uneasy possessiveness that might shake Britt’s concentration. Instead he channeled his thoughts toward the surgery at hand.
Immersed in a light self-induced trance, Claude held all physical sensation at bay and simultaneously shunted blood flow away from the puncture that Roger’s instruments opened wider. Roger allowed himself a twinge of envy for such refined control of autonomic functions. To his relief the slug had missed the heart as well as both lungs. He informed the other two of that fact. “You were lucky. Too bad you don’t believe in anyone you can thank for it.”
“You,” Claude responded in a distant murmur, keeping his eyes fixed on Britt’s. “Say it for me. Couldn’t hurt.”
Given the accelerated healing of vampire flesh, stitches would be superfluous. Roger closed the wound with gauze and tape. He and Britt together rolled Claude to one side, eliciting a groan from the patient, to replace the towels under him and strip off the rest of his clothes. Roger was dismayed to notice Claude’s eyes drifting shut.
“Wake up! You can’t lose consciousness yet. Britt, hold his hand and make sure he doesn’t.”
Taking him literally, Britt resumed her seat by the bed and cupped one of Claude’s hands in both of hers. “Why not? Is there any danger—?” Her reluctance to speak the words, in contrast to her usual candor, showed the extent of her anxiety.
“Of his dying? I don’t think so. As far as I know, an injury kills us outright or not at all.” A minuscule nod from Claude. “My concern is that the energy drain might send him into a coma so deep he couldn’t revive on his own. And I wouldn’t know how to awaken him safely.”
“Okay, I’ll keep him alert,” said Britt.
Roger left the room to clean his instruments and repack his bag. He had to get blood into Claude before dawn, since sunrise would certainly force the injured vampire into the deathlike daytime sleep. Reluctant though he was to take the risk, Roger knew he would have to contact one of his infrequently-used illicit sources. Over the years he’d cultivated several unscrupulous hospital and blood bank employees for this very purpose.
When he reentered the bedroom for a quick check on his patient, he saw Britt pressing her wrist to Claude’s mouth. Claude hadn’t accepted the invitation, but that didn’t temper Roger’s reaction. He sprang across the room and grabbed Britt’s arm.
“Colleague—” Her warning tone made him realize how hard he was squeezing her forearm.
“Sorry.” He relaxed his grip. “Britt, you mustn’t, it’s too far dangerous.”
“Claude? Dangerous?” Her voice was as harsh as Roger’s own.
“He’s desperate. He could drain you without meaning to.”
“The hell with that! Roger, he’s hurting—I can feel it! And you want me to ignore it?”
Her selfless courage shamed him. Imagine putting his own need ahead of a patient’s, and that patient his own brother. “Very well, do what you can for him.”
Claude moved his head in a slight negative gesture. “He’s got a point. Not sure I could stop.”
“No, Britt is right,” said Roger. “You need living nourishment. Excuse me, I have to make some phone calls.” He’d just as soon not watch Claude feed on Britt. True, Roger had once drunk from Eloise, with Claude’s permission, during a long separation from Britt. Soon thereafter, they’d tasted token sips from each other’s lovers to provide for just such an emergency as this. Normally, Claude, in this weakened state, would have been unable to accept any donor other than Eloise, because of their fixation on each other. Thanks to their precautions, now Britt was an acceptable substitute.
But the preparation didn’t make the act any easier for Roger to tolerate.
He went downstairs, well away from the bedroom, to use the office telephone. The first two contacts he spoke to made excuses, insisting they couldn’t obtain blood for several hours at the least. The third, an orderly in a hospital near Baltimore, said, “Man, I wondered if you’d ever call again. I got a dozen units in the freezer I been holding onto, just in case.”
Roger approved of the man’s foresight. No doubt he’d filched the supplies bit by bit over a period of months, from blood due to be discarded. Roger asked for six units.
“That’ll cost you.”
Roger wasn’t surprised at the exorbitant price quoted. After all, one expected to pay for high-risk services. He agreed to the deal and set terms for a meeting.
“You don’t care what type? What do you do with the stuff, anyhow?”
“You don’t need to know.” Doubtless his suppliers suspected some underworld connection.
“On second thought, guess I don’t want to.” The man hung up.
Roger went upstairs to tell Britt and Claude he was leaving. He found Britt leaning over the patient, who obstinately turned away from her. “Roger, he won’t take it.”
Striding to the bed, Roger looked down at his brother. Claude’s eyes glowed with hunger in the deep shadow, for Britt had switched off the lamp for his comfort. “Oh, yes, he will. Listen to me, you. Stop trying to act noble. It doesn’t suit you. Besides, you’re making Britt feel rejected.”
Claude’s gaze shifted from Roger to Britt. Again she placed the pulse point of her left wrist against his lips. Roger felt her silent invitation, like a fragrant cloud that lulled all resistance to sleep. After a shuddering moan, Claude surrendered. His mouth fastened on her flesh.
Britt, sitting on the edge of the bed, closed her eyes and swayed towa
rd Claude. Though the emotion that flowed from her with her blood was nurturing, not erotic, Roger could hardly bear it. He stared at his watch.
At the end of five minutes he placed a hand firmly but gently on Claude’s shoulder. “That’s enough. Stop.”
Claude’s eyes dreamily drifted open. Removing his mouth from the incision, he pushed Britt’s arm away.
“No, he’s not satisfied,” she said. “Colleague, I’m fine, I can give more.”
Pressing on the tiny wound to stop the flow, Roger guided her from the bed to the nearest chair. “You’re experienced enough to know that your feelings aren’t reliable right now. You’re letting empathy undermine your judgment.”
Britt rubbed her forehead. “You could be right. I do feel a little dizzy. Interesting sensation—nothing sexual about it, a pure emptiness begging to be filled.”
“Merci,” Claude whispered.
Britt smiled weakly. “Anytime. But you do need more.”
“I’ve arranged for six units of whole blood,” Roger said. “In fact, I promised to meet my source in less than half an hour, so I’d better go.”
“What about Gillian out there with Greer?” Though Britt kept her voice even, she couldn’t hide her anxiety. “Every minute he may be taking her farther away. Isn’t there anything you can do?”
“Such as?” Roger said. “I’m worried, of course, but it’s realistic to suppose that she’s in no immediate danger. If he wanted to kill her, he would have done it, not kidnapped her. He’d want a healthy hostage—or research subject.” Britt nodded but didn’t look wholly convinced. “I’ll be back as soon as possible. Keep the doors locked, and don’t let Claude sleep.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” said Britt.
Silently apologizing for giving unnecessary orders, Roger went into his bedroom to get cash from a small safe in the back of the closet. One precaution Volnar insisted on was keeping ample amounts of money in the house. While Roger normally led a civilized, unadventurous life, occasionally he’d had cause to appreciate his mentor’s advice on that point.
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