Dark Changeling

by Margaret Carter

  Chapter 3

  TWILIGHT WAS closing in when Roger arrived at Sylvia's apartment. She met him in the lobby and introduced him to the doorman, whom she favored with a sultry smile before walking Roger around to the parking garage where he'd left the Citroen. “I want to drive this time,” she said. “Let's swing through Cambridge for my car, and I'll drive you back to pick up yours before we go home.”

  “What are your plans for the night?” he asked as he held the car door for her.

  “Well, we want to talk, and we could cruise at the same time. You know, hunt.” She put on a pair of sunglasses whose large frames accentuated the informal look of her white, backless sundress.

  “So soon?” he said.

  “Why not? How often do you, usually?”

  His chest tightened as he considered the question. Wrestling the car through traffic across the Charles River, he answered, “Once every couple of weeks.”

  “Good grief, how can you stand it?”

  “That isn't the kind of thing one would want to do any more often than necessary. If it's necessary at all.”

  “You still think I'm nuts, don't you?” She seemed unperturbed by that judgment.

  “Frankly, yes. And I should either persuade you to go into therapy or refuse to see you again.” By “hunting” with her, he was acting as an enabler, colluding in a bizarre codependence.

  “You won't, though, will you?”

  “No, God help me,” he said. “I want to know more about you—no matter how much it sounds like complete drivel.”

  “You don't have much time to dissect my brain, if you're moving soon. Or was that just an excuse you invented to get rid of me?”

  “No, it's true. I'm planning to relocate to Maryland within a few weeks.” He wondered what his prospective partner would think of Sylvia. Dr. Loren had mentioned in her letters that she took an interest in psi phenomena and had once participated in a series of ESP trials. Still, Rhine cards were a far cry from delusions of vampirism.

  They'd almost reached the Bronsons’ neighborhood before he nerved himself to question Sylvia further. “You used the expression ‘my kind.’ Please explain.”

  “I've been thinking it over, since last night, and I've figured out what you are,” she said. “You're a changeling, brought up by ephemerals, ignorant of your real identity. Roger, it's downright romantic!”

  Sourly amused by her enthusiasm for her hypothesis, he said, “It doesn't seem romantic to me, living it. Brought up by what?”

  “Ephemerals. You know, short-lifers.”

  “What does that make you? Immortal?”

  “Close enough. We can't die; we have to be killed.”

  “Oh, and I suppose you claim to be hundreds of years old.”

  She laughed. “Don't be silly, I'm twenty-nine, just a kid.” Signalling for him to pull over, she said, “There's my car.”

  Sylvia's car, a white Mustang, sat unmolested where she'd left it, parked under a tree about a block from the site of last night's party.So that's the theory she uses to justify her behavior—she belongs to a higher species, Roger thought.Ingenious, if nothing else. "Do you really expect me to believe there is a subculture of—of vampires—lurking in the shadowed corners of human society?”

  “Believe what you like.” She seemed more entertained than annoyed by his skepticism. Since darkness was falling, Roger and Sylvia both removed their sunglasses as they switched to the other car. She gave it a pat on the fender before slipping into the driver's seat and rolling down her window. “As a matter of fact, there's another one in Boston right now. You wouldn't want to meet him, though. I've stayed away from him since I found out how rough he plays.”

  “Rough?”

  She said with a humorless laugh, “Would you believe he's that serial killer the papers are full of? Leaving bodies around is strictly against the rules.”

  Her flippant tone chilled Roger. “You know who he is, and you haven't informed the police?”That settles one thing—I have to keep seeing her. If there's the slightest chance she really does know the killer, it's my duty to get that information for O'Toole.

  She paused with her hand on the ignition key. “Are you out of your mind?” He felt her outrage like a slap in the face. “Never mind, you don't understand,” she said, revving the engine. “You were brought up human.”

  Roger didn't waste time insisting again that hewas human. “If you think I'm one of your race, you should tell me about them.”

  “It's not my place to give out information that might betray the group. I can answer general questions and tell you about myself, but not about anybody else.” Sylvia gave him a sidelong smile as the Mustang inched through the Cambridge streets toward the freeway. “I've already said too much—for some reason you rattle me, Doctor. Maybe because I keep thinking you want to get me on your couch.”

  For a second he suspected an intentionaldouble entendre, but her surface emotions carried no indication of that. Yes, he did itch to psychoanalyze her, just as he wanted to worm information about the supposed vampire race from her.

  “As for believing you are or aren't a vampire—” She held up a hand to cut off his automatic protest. “Yeah, I know, you think the word is unscientific nonsense. But, heck, you even look like one of us. I noticed that before I picked up on the color of your aura.”

  “How so?” He told himself he was humoring her to be polite. After all, he couldn't very well psychoanalyze a person who rejected the whole idea of therapy.

  “Your height, for one thing. You're—how tall? Definitely over six feet.”

  “Six four,” he said.

  “And lean—not an ounce of extra fat. Gray eyes, almost silver; aquiline profile; black hair with no sign of middle-aged baldness and only a dash of gray at the temples.”

  Despite the roar of confusion in his brain, the tenuous nature of her “evidence” amused him. “Those traits could describe any of a hundred thousand men.”

  “We all have hair of either black or some shade of red.” She stretched her right arm across the back of the seat to brush her fingers over his hair. “I'll bet that distinguished-looking sprinkle of silver makes you a real lady-killer.”

  Roger shifted away from her hand, his lips tightening in distaste at the pun.

  She gave him a sly grin, clearly amused by his reaction. “Not that you need it. Haven't you noticed how women gravitate toward you when you're hungry?”

  He refused to admit aloud that he'd sometimes imagined they did. “Sounds like blatant wish-fulfillment to me.”

  “When you tried to feed on me, I felt your strength and the coolness of your skin. Along with the tint of your aura, that's plenty of proof for me that you're not human.”

  He clutched the armrest, battling the sensation that he was sinking ever deeper into the quicksand of her delusional construct. “Sheer fantasy.”

  “Oh, yeah? Then how do you explain your hypnotic powers, your sixth sense for emotions, the way you can hear the slightest noises, even people's heartbeats—”

  “If that last is anything more than my imagination,” he said, “some neurological abnormalities involve hyperacute sensory perception. I have an eidetic memory; the two conditions may go together, for all I know.”

  “Aha!” She thumped the dashboard as if scoring a point. “Photographic memory is another trait all our people have.”

  “You're reaching, Sylvia.” How conveniently she mani-pulated every piece of data to fit into her world-view. “For all I know, most of what I think I perceive could be imaginary.”

  “Even seeing auras? You have confirmation from me on that.”

  He flashed her a grim smile. If he could dissociate the topic from his own lifelong self-doubt, he could almost enjoy debating with her. “That's assuming I accept your testimony as reliable.”

  “Oh, yeah, I keep forgetting. According to you, my elevator doesn't go up to the penthouse.” Once on the open highway, she weaved in and out of traffic until suburban congestio
n fell behind, leaving her a clear road. “Roger, I have never met such a stubborn, rock-skulled—I give up! If you don't think you're a vampire, what do you call yourself?”

  “A blood fetishist, of course, though I've never found a case in the literature exactly like mine.” Speaking that diagnosis aloud to another person for the first time in his life gave him an unexpected sense of relief.

  “And you won't, trust me. Oh, well, speaking of blood—” With a feline smile she gunned the engine to top speed, the wind whistling through her hair.

  “How many points have you got on your license?” Roger said.

  “Zero,” she shouted back over the wind.

  “Don't you get stopped?”

  “All the time. I want to.” A few minutes later, a siren wailed in the rear. Sylvia flashed Roger a grin as she braked. “Here comes dinner.”

  “That strikes me as an unjustified risk.”

  “Roger, you aren't much fun, but I like you anyway.” She opened her door and stood up, watching the highway patrolman bring his car to a stop behind the Mustang. Sylvia walked over to the patrol car, her skirt fluttering around her long, slim legs. When the officer got out, she leaned toward him, resting one hand on his forearm. Though they stood outside the headlights’ glow, where no passing driver could see more than the dark outline of their bodies, Roger's keen night vision allowed him a clear view. The wind blew Sylvia's words away, but the tilt of her head made the pleading character of her speech obvious. A moment later her arms were around the policeman's neck, her lips nibbling at his ear.

  She left the officer sitting, dazed, in the front seat of his vehicle and returned to her own car. “Want him?” she asked Roger.

  “Certainly not. I don't have any homoerotic tendencies.”

  Sylvia got in and restarted the motor. “Those distinctions don't mean much to us. Don't you ever take men?”

  “Not if given a choice,” he said. In the absence of sexual polarity, male victims could be no more than a tepid substitute for what Roger considered the real thing.

  “I can't blame you much,” Sylvia said, accelerating to just above the speed limit. “Human males can be disappointing. They don't last; there's a physical limit to how long they can maintain that excitement we feed on. Women have a lot more stamina. I guess that's why we female vampires indulge in more—homoeroticism—than our male cousins do.”

  He had to grant Sylvia more honesty than he possessed, for she wasn't afraid to apply the word “vampire” to herself. He reluctantly admired the coherence of her delusional system, too; she so conveniently avoided all guilt, by relegating her victims to a biologically inferior status.

  He almost wished he could do the same, for then his sleep wouldn't be haunted by blood-drenched dreams.

  * * * *

  AFTER AN UNSETTLING weekend with Sylvia, Roger felt positive relief in tackling the chore that faced him on Monday—flying to Maryland to check out the practice he expected to buy into. On a pragmatic level, he was glad he'd thoroughly appeased his blood-need Sunday night. For this interview he had to be clear-headed.

  Dr. Loren had arranged matters at her end with admirable efficiency. She'd provided Roger with a reservation at the downtown Annapolis Hilton and a xerox copy of a local map, with the locations of the hotel and her office circled in red ink. This forethought, along with her precise, legible handwriting, further predisposed him in her favor.

  Meeting her, at ten thirty the morning of his arrival, produced a few surprises. He wasn't surprised to find her office, in a three-story building two blocks from the Navy football stadium, as meticulously neat as her correspondence. True, the enlarged “Peanuts” cartoons that shared wall space with her diplomas from the University of Maryland and Johns Hopkins weren't conventional decor, but doubtless she used them to put patients at ease. He had expected her tailored three-piece suit and the tightly disciplined coil of her hair. He'd also expected the briskly businesslike handshake with which she greeted him.

  He hadn't anticipated her flaming titian hair, her flawlessly creamy redhead's skin, or the sharp green eyes that assessed him as if she could read him as easily as he read her. Nor had he anticipated his own reaction when their hands touched—a desire to continue touching, to enjoy the flutter of her pulse against his fingertips, as if he couldn't hear her heartbeat from across the room anyway. The tiny hairs in the center of his palm tingled at the contact.

  What's wrong with me? Why am I thinking about a professional colleague that way when I'm not even in need?The roseate shimmer of her aura fascinated him; he had to concentrate hard to keep his mind on what she was saying.

  Dr. Loren wasted little time on ritual pleasantries. As soon as they'd introduced themselves and commented on the humidity outside, she said, “Well, Dr. Darvell, what can you tell me about your reasons for relocating?”

  Thoroughly prepared for this question, Roger delivered his rehearsed account of a “midlife crisis” with all the persuasiveness at his command, short of exercising his hypnotic skill. Their association would have to spring from free choice on both sides. Using any coercion on Dr. Loren would backfire in the long run. After all, he couldn't keep her under control every hour of the working day, nor would he want a partner on those terms.

  As quickly as possible, he transferred the burden of explanation to her by inquiring about the practice's financial status. She replied at length, elaborating on what she had already told him in her letters and making no attempt to soft-pedal her situation. Because her former partner had unexpectedly been forced into early retirement by a cardiac condition, she needed a new associate as soon as possible. She couldn't afford to carry the practice alone.

  By imperceptible degrees the conversation shifted from business matters to the theory and technique of psychoanalysis. As a Jungian, Dr. Loren stood close enough to Roger's basically Freudian orientation that they could put up with each other, but not close enough to preclude disagreement. Over an hour raced by in theoretical argument. At the conclusion of a spirited wrangle about dream symbolism, Dr. Loren said, “You don't sound like a conventional Freudian.”

  “Only in modified form,” said Roger. He shifted in the chair to avoid the sunlight filtering between the curtains. “I use a psychodynamic approach, with a combination of methods.”

  “Then our styles will mesh—good. What about medication? I don't see you as the type to reach for the prescription pad first thing.”

  “Certainly not.” He was glad to note that, judging from the tone of the question, she didn't overuse drugs, either. “Meds have their place, of course, especially when long-term therapy is out of the question for most patients. Nowadays nobody wants to spend years in analysis, even if the insurance companies would allow it. I suppose if pinned to the wall, I'd have to consider myself eclectic.”

  “Aren't we all—nowadays?” Her smile caused an odd quiver in Roger's diaphragm. “You're not above using a spot of behavioral modification?”

  “Not so long as it isn't a substitute for tracing the roots of the problem.”

  She nodded agreement. “And I hope you don't believe in vaginal orgasm or penis envy?”

  “Really, Doctor, I'm not blind to the fact that our field has made some progress in the past eighty years!”

  “Wonderful. I couldn't risk being saddled with an archaic-minded male chauvinist for a partner.” A broad smile took the sting out of the remark. She stood up. “I think we'll suit, Dr. Darvell. I've got an appointment set up with my attorney for this afternoon, to sign the contract. I definitely want you for an associate.”

  And I want you, Dr. Loren—but it's out of the question, so kindly maintain that professional persona you do so well.

  Good God, what was he thinking of? When she offered her hand to seal the bargain, he clasped it as briefly as politeness allowed. Glancing at her watch, she announced with an air of mild surprise that it was past lunchtime. Roger declined her invitation, pleading fatigue from his trip, and instead returned to the hotel for
a futile attempt at a nap.

  Dr. Loren picked him up early for the meeting with the lawyer. Apparently she wanted leisure to pursue their morning's conversation. Pulling away from the Hilton, next to the city dock with its view of a sailboat-clogged inlet, she said, “If you don't mind satisfying idle curiosity, why did you become a psychiatrist?”

  Caught off guard by the unexpected question, Roger told the truth. “Morbid inquisitiveness about the workings of the human mind. Besides, I discovered early in my medical training that hospitals made me ill, and I reacted badly to the sight of blood.”

  Dr. Loren said with a throaty laugh, “If you'd claimed you went into the field out of a deep yearning to help suffering humanity, somehow I wouldn't have believed you.”

  “Why did you choose this specialty?” he countered.

  “Partly the same as you,” she said. “People's thought processes fascinate me. Every human being is unique—though you might not guess it from the sheeplike way some of them behave—and I enjoy helping them discover and cultivate their uniqueness. Watching a person waste energy lugging around the baggage of the past when he or she could be living a fully creative life drives me up the wall.” She added with a self-deprecating smile at her own intensity, “Sometimes I want to grab them and give them a good shaking. Probably a byproduct of growing up as the older of two sisters. There's a lot of truth in those theories about family dynamics, even if they've been oversimplified in the popular press. Are you a firstborn, too?”

  “Only child,” Roger said.

  “Aha—QED!”

  Both to divert the conversation from personal matters and to appease his curiosity, he asked about the psi experiments she had mentioned in her letters.

  “Inconclusive,” she said. “And I can't afford time off to pursue those bypaths on my own. I keep an open mind on the subject, though.”