Child of Twilight

by Margaret L. Carter

“In that case I don’t see a problem,” said Britt. “Unless he recognizes Claude from the other night.”

  “Impossible,” said Claude. “He didn’t see me as I normally look. He saw a monster.”

  “All right,” she said. “Let’s do it. When do we start?”

  Claude glanced at his watch. “Eloise and I had better leave now. You two should arrive in a separate car, since we don’t want Greer to notice any connection between us and Roger.”

  “I’m not happy with the plan,” Roger said, “but I’ll cooperate. I suppose once we’re there, Britt and I shouldn’t be seen together.” While he knew how remote any risk of harm to Britt was, and anyway he would keep constant watch over her telepathically, he still felt uncomfortable about letting her confront Gillian’s kidnapper.

  She silently chided him, [Colleague, you’re thinking irrationally again. The man is hardly a desperate criminal. Didn’t Eloise say the way he behaved the other night was completely out of character?]

  [Was it really? Then what pushed him into it?]

  “ARE YOU HUNGRY? Anything I can get for you?”

  Gillian glared up at Professor Greer. He stood in the doorway of the windowless bathroom, while she sat on the closed lid of the toilet. He’d shackled her by one leg, with a pair of handcuffs linked together into a chain, to the sink’s exposed drainpipe. Prolonged experimentation had convinced her that she didn’t have the strength to rip the pipe out of the floor.

  He’d brought her to a cabin in the woods sufficiently isolated from those nearby that screaming wouldn’t do much good even if she became desperate enough to call for human aid. Besides, as Greer had made a point of mentioning, at this time of year, few people were eccentric enough to vacation in a forest hideaway. Hunters, maybe, but deer season was over. On the way in, Gillian had surveyed the limited confines of the cabin—two rooms, a small kitchen and a living room with a fold-out sofa bed. Since Greer hadn’t shut the bathroom door all the way, she’d been able to watch him lie down for a nap after he’d washed up, judging from the sounds, at the kitchen sink. He’d left her hands free with the warning, “Don’t bother trying to attack me, because I won’t come near you with the keys in my pocket. If you kill me, no telling how long you’ll be stuck here.”

  Yet he seemed sincere with his assurances that he didn’t want to hurt her. At her request, before he went to sleep he’d taken away her garlic-sprinkled shirt (with a puzzled stare at her gold cross) and given her one of his sweatshirts. And now he was offering to feed her. Gillian dismissed her first impulse to ignore him. What would be the virtue in starving herself? She needed to maintain her strength and alertness to have a chance of escape. “Milk,” she said.

  “All right,” he answered softly. “You wouldn’t rather have blood?” He began rolling up his left sleeve.

  Startled by the offer, she blurted out, “I don’t drink human blood.”

  Greer’s eyes widened. “So you do drink animal blood? I’ll try to get you something—maybe from a pet shop—if you’ll talk to me.”

  Gillian inwardly cursed herself for confirming his guess. It had to be a guess; how could he know anything definite about her nature? After they’d stared at each other in silence for a moment, Greer withdrew from the doorway out of her sight. Shortly he reappeared with a paper cup. “Here’s your milk.” Without stepping into the bathroom he reached out to set the cup near her feet.

  She drank the milk, then rinsed the cup to fill it with water. Drinking directly from the faucet was a slow, messy business.

  Watching her, Greer said, “Give me that. I’ll bring you a clean cup—sorry I didn’t think of it before.”

  She crumpled the empty container and tossed it to him.

  Again he left, this time returning with the promised cup. “You see, I want to make you comfortable, aside from this.” He gestured at the cuffs. “Tell me what I want to know, and you can go back to your father.”

  Insincerity crept into his tone at this point. “No, you won’t send me home. You’d be afraid to.” Greer’s almost imperceptible flinch confirmed that intuition. “What do you really plan to do when you’re finished with me?”

  He only stared at her, his eyes cloudy with confusion. So he hadn’t thought out his plan to the end.

  Gillian fixed her gaze on him. Her hypnotic power had almost ensnared him before. Surely, given enough time to work on him, she could override his will. His weariness after only a few hours of sleep worked in her favor. He swayed on his feet, and his eyes momentarily glazed over. Recollecting the danger, though, he wrenched himself away, shaking his head.

  “You almost had me that time.” He actually smiled, as if pleased to watch her talent in operation even at risk to himself. “But what’s the point of fighting? Listen, I’ve already seen you change into—whatever that was. Show me that again. I know about it, so what could it hurt?”

  Gillian sat on the floor, her back against the wall and knees drawn up to her chest, and looked away from him.

  He disappeared again, making her think he’d decided to leave her in peace. Instead he dragged the worn, floral-print armchair from the living room to the bathroom door. He sat with a portable tape recorder in his lap and a Polaroid camera on the floor beside him. “Talk to me, Gillian. It’s a couple of hours before dawn, and I’m not expected anywhere until tonight. I’ve got plenty of time.”

  When he started working through an unwritten list of questions, she ignored him. Since he didn’t want to damage her, what was the worst he could do? Bore her to death?

  Once he’d apparently reached the end of his mental list, he got up to fix himself a drink. She heard him puttering in the kitchen, dropping ice cubes into a glass and pouring liquid. He sat down again, sipping a beverage that smelled strongly of alcohol, and resumed the interrogation. This routine went on for hours, with Greer taking occasional breaks to step outside, until Gillian felt the weight of the rising sun through the trees and the walls of the cabin. Fatigue dragged at her. At this rate, the man would bore her to death, or at least to raving madness. Fortunately, she could escape him in sleep. She curled up in fetal position on the hard tile and closed her eyes.

  “Wake up!” Greer barked at her. She incuriously looked up at him. “I’m not letting you sleep until you give me something. One day of staying awake won’t hurt you, and I can hold out as long as you can.”

  She displayed her contempt by closing her eyes again. She soon realized, though, that he could fulfill his threat. When he discovered that talking alone wouldn’t prevent her from dozing off, she thought he might try shaking or slapping, thus giving her a chance to work on his weak human will through touch as well as eye contact. But he proved too cautious for that. Instead, he got a broom from the kitchen and poked her under the chin with the straws whenever she closed her eyes. She began to feel like the performing lions she’d seen in circuses on television.

  “What’s the point of this stonewalling?” he said in a coaxing voice. “I told you, I don’t like giving you a hard time. Just do one thing for me, and I’ll let you rest until tonight.” He picked up the Polaroid. “Let me photograph you changing shape.”

  Gillian wondered how much good such a picture would do him. While part of the shape-change involved real shifting of molecules, a large portion consisted of illusion. She stretched her cramped arms, scowling at Greer from beneath her brows. Suppose she projected an illusion without transforming at all? Would the resultant failure to photograph the change convince him that no real change had ever occurred, that it was all a form of hypnosis?

  “Very well, I’ll show you what I can do, if you promise to leave me alone after that. I make no guarantee about the results.”

  “Wonderful!” Animation returned to his tired face. “I knew you’d see reason eventually. You won’t regret this.” He centered her in the camera’s viewfinder. “First, let me get a picture of your normal appearance.” Gillian winced as the flash went off. “Interesting, your eyebrows actually grow together
above your nose.” She’d been too preoccupied over the past few days to pluck them and had forgotten how less human the bushy growth made her look. “And in this dim light, your eyes glow. Now, please, the transformation.”

  Gillian turned inward, concentrating. Could she project a false image of herself without getting carried away and physically changing? She visualized what she wanted the professor to see—pointed ears, a feline muzzle, fangs, a pair of bat wings, velvety fur shading from tawny red to glossy black. At the same time she folded her legs beneath her and wrapped her arms around herself, gritting her teeth with the strain of leashing the wave of power that swelled within her. Faintly, she heard Greer’s heartbeat accelerate. The camera clicked over and over. Confident of her control now, she opened her eyes to gaze at him. But she couldn’t entrap him, because the camera blocked eye contact.

  “Beautiful, beautiful!” he whispered. She smelled the sweat of excitement on his skin. “I’d love to touch you this way—but not now. Maybe when we trust each other more.” His voice quavered with a trace of fear behind the excitement. “Those teeth—Maybe I’ll bring you a present, see what you can do with those teeth.” He was muttering more to himself than her. Finally he said, “That’s enough for now.”

  Gillian relaxed, lightheaded from the sustained effort. She watched Greer gather up the snapshots the Polaroid had ejected. His euphoria faded into anger. “What the hell is this?”

  Excellent, I did it! Her joy at mastering the skill equaled her pleasure in tricking the man. “I told you I didn’t guarantee satisfactory pictures. You saw what my mind projected into yours. How could a camera record that?”

  He shuffled through the photos. “There’s something here, though. Kind of a fogging effect. And that gleam in your eyes shows up great.” He held up one of the pictures in her line of sight. She saw that a luminous halo outlined her form. And the red glow did visibly smolder in her eyes. “Too indefinite to prove anything, though,” said Greer.

  Remembering books she’d skimmed dealing with creatures such as Bigfoot and the Loch Ness Monster, Gillian said, “What if you did record on film what you thought you saw? Would others believe in it? Wouldn’t they say you faked the pictures?”

  Greer’s shoulders sagged. “They might. God knows special effects can do a lot more impressive things. Well, I’m going to come up with something that will convince people, and you damn well better decide to cooperate. I’ve been generous, letting you have the facilities to yourself. Maybe I should chain you on the porch instead. Nobody’s around to notice, and why should I have to go outside and freeze my butt off?” He collected his paraphernalia and moved the chair away from the door. Before leaving Gillian alone, he gave her a pillow, which she accepted with a dry word of thanks.

  She drifted into sleep, still meditating on the subject of illusions. With her skill sharpened by desperation, she ought to be able to weave some mirage that would lure her captor within her grasp—something to lull his resistance until she could trap him in her mesmeric web. She gnashed her teeth like a lion that had its trainer between its jaws.

  Chapter Eight

  I’LL VANISH. THAT ought to shock him into dropping his guard.

  Gillian had no clear plan for implementing that inspiration. Proud of her new accomplishment, projecting an illusion of invisibility, she had a notion that it could prove useful against Greer. Surely the impossible sight of an empty room where he’d left her chained would lure him within her grasp. Then—Her brain stalled at that point. Killing or disabling him would, as he’d made a point of warning her, leave her with no access to the keys, since he didn’t keep them on his person.

  Gillian had awakened well before sunset from a restless sleep hag-ridden by dreams of futile escape attempts. She’d found herself alone in the cabin. Now, with the early twilight of winter closing in—though she couldn’t see the windows from her position, thickening shadows in the living room confirmed what her vampire time-sense told her—she expected him to return soon. Knowing Gillian would awaken as dark approached, he would want to check on his captive. Probably he was gearing up to nag her with a few more hours of questions.

  No, he’d mentioned that he had somewhere to go this evening. So if she wanted to try hypnotizing him into releasing her, she’d better prepare to make her move as soon as he walked in.

  Hunger cramps distracted her. If she were older, she could accept Greer’s blood. Drinking from him would give her a stronger chance at controlling him. Even if she accepted his offer, though, would he follow through on it? She sensed in him a fear out of proportion to the meager threat she presented.

  Idle speculation wouldn’t help her master her own fear. She diverted her thoughts to practical matters. After all day on the floor she felt dirty as well as sore and stiff. The cuffs were too short to let her reach the shower stall. Peeling off the sweatshirt, she washed at the sink. In the absence of a towel she waited for her skin to air-dry. Meanwhile she ran through a series of stretching exercises to limber her aching muscles. When she put the shirt back on, she felt slightly cleaner but not much. The desire to make Greer pay for this humiliation preyed on her like a physical thirst.

  No, revenge is a waste of energy. That’s what Lord Volnar would say, and so would Claude. Have to concentrate on getting away from here.

  Why hadn’t Roger or Claude shown up searching for her yet? Had Greer covered his trail that well? Or did her father simply not care? Were they so angry at her for endangering Claude that they would cast her off? Her head ached with emotions that her kind could not relieve with tears.

  She reclined on the pillow, calmed herself with slow, deep breathing, and recited logarithmic tables in her head.

  Some time later the sound of the front door broke her self-induced trance. A gust of cold wind and Greer’s footsteps on the hardwood blew toward her. Anxiety made her heart race. No, any emotion might unravel her control. She submerged herself in the quiescence required to project her illusion. She visualized a dazzling cloud around her body. She imagined it bending light rays around her, fracturing and scattering the professor’s mortal sight. She envisioned herself secure within this cocoon of mist until she chose to reveal her presence.

  Greer’s voice floated to her. “Gillian, I brought you a present. Want you to keep your strength up so we can work together.”

  She scented rodents. Again, her heartbeat accelerated. Saliva trickled into her mouth. She knew she mustn’t let the sensory input distract her. Slowing her pulse, she sank deeper into the sheltering cave of her invisibility. She heard Greer pause to shed his coat and gloves before approaching the bathroom door. He carried a cubical, plastic cage.

  “What the hell—!” Setting the cage on the floor, he stared at the empty shackle. He blinked as if he thought the dimness deceived his eyes.

  Gillian kept a tight curb on her excitement. She couldn’t lose her grip on the illusion. Come on, she silently urged her captor. Come over here and investigate. Greer took half a step into the bathroom. He goggled at the spot where Gillian should be, as if his gaze could make her reappear from thin air.

  “This is stupid,” he muttered. “Not unlocked or broken, so how—? She can’t really dissolve into mist, can she?” He cast bewildered glances around him. “Gillian?” He moved closer and knelt on the floor, staring at the handcuffs.

  Touch me, she willed. Put yourself into my hands. She struggled to keep her fingers from elongating into claws at the image of his flesh in her grasp.

  He slowly reached toward the place where her ankle should have been. When his fingertips brushed the metal of the cuff, she knew the moment had arrived. She couldn’t maintain the psychic veil while his sense of touch contradicted what his eyes told him. She allowed the mirage to melt away. At the same instant she clamped one hand on his outstretched wrist, and with the other she stroked the side of his neck.

  Before he could break the paralysis of shock, Gillian caught and imprisoned his eyes. She willed her own to glow crimson in the un
lit room. I did it, I have him! If Volnar could see this! She could learn her race’s survival skills without a blood-bond.

  The professor’s groping fingers went slack. Gaping at her, he didn’t resist the massage of her thumb along his jawline. His pulse under her hand made the cilia in her palm bristle.

  “You’re mine now,” she whispered. “You don’t want to confine me this way, do you? Would you not prefer to observe me in my natural state, free and wild? Let me go, and I’ll answer all your questions.”

  “Yes—” His voice trailed off. His head lolled to one side, inviting her to continue massaging his neck.

  “I’ll give you more of this, as much as you want,” she said, cued by his rising excitement. “First, get the keys and unlock me. Then we can share—observations—in comfort.”

  He answered her with a lethargic nod. “Do it now,” she whispered. He pulled himself to his feet and shambled off.

  A few seconds later he returned with the keys. “I shouldn’t do this,” he muttered. “There’s a reason why I shouldn’t do this.” His muddled eyes, faintly accusing, sought hers. “You’re a dangerous animal.”

  “Oh, no, you can’t really believe that.” Holding his gaze, she disarmed him with the purr of her voice. “You want to give me pleasure. You want to set me free.”

  Clutching her ankle again, he fumbled with the key. Spasms shook his hand as he tried to insert the key into the lock. His eyes constantly drifted away from hers; she had to struggle to lure them back. Again she rubbed his neck and chin, counting on the physical contact to undermine his will.

  His trembling hand dropped the key, which clinked on the tile. He started at the sound. Eyes widening, he cringed back. “No—mustn’t do this—dangerous—”

  Exasperated by the sudden resistance, Gillian raked her nails across his throat. Luckily she didn’t succumb to all-out rage, and Greer was backing off at that moment, so her claws inflicted only superficial scratches. Four raw scrapes oozed blood. The scent made her head spin.