Dark Changeling

by Margaret Carter

  “Lieutenant, there's something you should know,” he began. “I consulted with the Boston Police Department in a very similar series of crimes....” He summarized his involvement, then mentioned Sandor's escape and gave Hayes the name of Lieutenant O'Toole as a contact.

  Glad to have that revelation over with, Roger strolled to the far edge of the lot, bordered by Farragut, a residential street lined with quietly expensive old houses. He still felt too agitated to drive. He wondered if his nervousness were solely due to the call from Sandor and the sight of the murdered woman.Well, what else could it be? Turning paranoid on top of everything else, are we?

  Roger sniffed the humid air, thankful that the breeze blew toward, not from, the stadium. His skin prickled as if ants crawled on it. He felt—watched. The same feeling he'd had the night Sandor had attacked Alice. He turned his head, surveying the unlit parking lot.

  There—a flash of red. Somehow Roger knew he hadn't glimpsed a cigarette tip or a passing car's taillights. Glowing crimson eyes—like Sylvia's.

  Sandor?It would be typical of the killer to gloat over the carnage almost within view of his pursuers.

  Without another second for thought, Roger burst into a run. He charged across the parking lot to the corner where he'd seen that red glint, out of sight of the police contingent on the other side of the stadium. A living aura shimmered into focus.

  The man stood his ground like an effigy carved of stone. Roger lunged at him. His fingers, curled like talons, reached for the man's neck.

  The other warded him off with contemptuous ease. An instant later, Roger lay flat on his back on the strip of grass beside the street.

  The wind was knocked out of him, and the pain of being slammed against the ground reverberated through his bones. In a spasm of rage he clawed at his opponent's throat. The other man pinned his arms to the ground. Roger stared up into silver eyes whose centers glowed red. That observation, combined with the cool skin temperature and the strength that held him immobilized, left no doubt.

  My God, Sylvia was telling the truth! There are more of them!Until this moment, despite the weight of evidence, at gut level he hadn't believed her claims.

  And this—this vampire did not match her description of the renegade.

  Roger forcibly slowed his breathing. “You must be Volnar.”

  The other released him and stood up. “Yes, Roger, I am Anton Volnar.”

  Roger got to his feet, his ears still ringing from the shock. “Hell of a way to introduce yourself.”

  “I wanted to observe you from a distance first—and you did attack me.” Volnar displayed no anger. In fact, probing for the vampire's surface emotions, Roger touched blankness.

  “Well, I don't intend to apologize. However, I'm glad to meet you.” He surveyed Volnar—slightly taller than Roger's own six foot four, with black hair, iron-gray at the temples, curling back from a domed forehead, and an aquiline profile. Except for being clean-shaven, he closely resembled Dracula as described by Stoker, even to the eyebrows growing together. “But damned if I'll call you ‘Lord Volnar,’ like Sylvia.”

  Volnar said with a thin smile, “Call me ‘Dr. Volnar,’ if you wish. I have a perfectly legitimate medical degree, even if slightly out of date.”

  They started walking toward the dark concrete bulk of the stadium. “Out of date?”

  “Earned in Paris, mid-nineteenth century.”

  Two months ago, Roger would have scoffed at that offhand remark. Coming from this creature, it sounded like plain fact. An incautious movement made him wince from his bruises. Volnar noticed.

  “I won't apologize either. But you needn't put up with the discomfort. Don't you know how to shut off pain?” Without waiting for an answer, he grasped Roger by the shoulders, ignoring Roger's instinctive recoil. “Turn your attention inward—trace the affected nerves—yes, like that.”

  The glow of Volnar's eyes made Roger's head swim.He's hypnotizing me! Roger forced himself to look away, and the night refocused around him. He sensed Volnar had permitted that moment of resistance; Roger's own strength couldn't have severed the link. The soreness, he noticed, had disappeared. To think he'd worked that operation on his patients many times, for symptoms such as headaches, and never thought of applying it to himself.

  “Good enough for a first attempt,” said Volnar. “We have much to discuss, but this isn't the place. I'm staying at a hotel on West Street, a block from downtown. Follow me there, and we'll talk.” Without waiting for a reply, he got into a rental car parked nearby and started the motor.

  Arrogant devil,Roger grumbled to himself.If Sylvia's hero-worship is typical, he probably gets ample encouragement.

  Roger was prepared to put up with a lot for straight answers. He started his own car and followed, as ordered. He found a space on the street a block away from the hotel, while Volnar pulled into the parking garage. As Roger got out of his car, he noticed a fresh breeze. A cold front was moving in, with a promise of autumn temperatures and rain to break the humidity.

  When they met in the lobby, the vampire led the way to a second-floor room, where he paused to listen at the door before unlocking it. He projected no awareness of danger; the act seemed to be a routine precaution.

  Without bothering to switch on a light, Volnar directed Roger to one of two chairs flanking the table near the window. The room was a double, with suitcases and a briefcase on the extra bed. From a suitcase Volnar produced a bottle of Cour-voisier.

  Roger watched guardedly, wondering if, forewarned, he would find that strength quite so irresistible. Volnar said in a tone of quiet amusement, “Don't try. It would be a waste of energy, as well as the time we should spend answering your questions.” His eyes raking Roger up and down, he announced, “You need a drink.”

  Roger accepted the brandy, incongruously served in a stan-dard motel toothbrush glass, with an ungracious mutter of thanks.

  “That should take the edge off,” said Volnar, “and render you capable of rational conversation.”

  Roger flushed. He did feel the need for blood, damn it, and it made no sense. After Saturday, he shouldn't have felt the craving for close to a week.

  “What's the matter with you?” said Volnar with that same irritating trace of amusement.

  “Nothing. I shouldn't need—” He sipped the brandy. “I don't enjoy discussing it.”

  “Well, I won't waste time catering to your sensibilities. After the stress you've undergone tonight, including exposure to fresh blood, naturally you want to feed.” He didn't comment further on Roger's distaste for the blunt language. “We'll deal with that later. What would you like to know?”

  The dozens of questions spinning in Roger's head receded into the background. Before he realized what he intended to say, he blurted out, “I want to know what you're going to do about Sandor.”

  Seated in the other chair, Volnar took a thoughtful sip of his drink before answering. “What do you expect me to do?”

  “According to Sylvia, you hold a position of authority in your group. Isn't it your job to stop Sandor from killing, if only to protect your secret?”

  Volnar's eyebrows arched as if in surprise at Roger's on-target analysis. “Quite right. Indiscriminate, conspicuous killing attracts attention. How do you expect me to catch him?”

  “Confound it, from the way Sylvia talks, you're some sort of blasted demigod! You're telling me you can't find him, as reckless as he is?”

  Volnar held up a conciliatory hand. “There's no need to ex-cite yourself, Roger. Episodes like this are always self-limiting.”

  “Episodes? Is that all this string of pointless deaths means to you?” Roger cut his tirade short, uncomfortably conscious of how his outburst sounded against Volnar's cool control.

  “As a matter of fact, I'm catching a plane for London in a few hours. Neil's twin sister, the only person he is likely to listen to, presently lives in England. If I can find her, I hope she may be in contact with him and can persuade him to turn himself
over to our Council of Elders.”

  “Persuade? That's your solution?”

  “We'll discuss ‘solutions’ later. Why don't you begin at the beginning and tell me about your acquaintance with Sylvia and your clash with Neil? Omit no detail. We have time.”

  The sudden change of emphasis jolted Roger into relative calm. “Didn't Sylvia tell you? Or haven't you talked to her? Does she even know you're in town.”

  “No, with so little time to spare, I wanted to devote my full attention to you,” Volnar said. “I spoke to her by phone last night, and she told me parts of it—from her viewpoint. I want yours.”

  Beginning at Mrs. Bronson's party back in August, Roger narrated the high points of his friendship with Sylvia and the tangle of events that had followed. He omitted only the more intimate moments, especially that night she had tried to drink from him; that incident was too agonizing to relive.

  When he wound down, gulping the brandy to soothe his dry throat, Volnar stared at him for half a minute before saying in a cold, measured voice, “Do you realize how close to catastrophe you came, how many times?”

  “I think so,” Roger said, bristling at the contemptuous tone.

  “I doubt it. If you'd had any inkling of what it meant to betray one of your own, you wouldn't have considered doing so. Didn't Sylvia warn you about that?”

  “She mentioned it. I stand by what I told her then—I see no reason to shield a murderer.”

  Volnar let that pass without comment. “Furthermore, your dietary habits need revision. By abstaining so long between donors, you set yourself up for impulsive acts that lead to disaster.”

  “I don't intend to be careless,” Roger said.

  “Good intentions don't suffice, in your present state of ignorance.”

  “Look here, sir—” The honorific spontaneously slipped out, despite Roger's indignation.

  Volnar overrode him. “I'll give you as much instruction as I can tonight. It's not the ideal situation, but it will have to do. Later you should spend a few weeks at our headquarters in Nevada, meet some of the others.”

  “Nevada? Oh, yes, Sylvia mentioned that she grew up there.”

  “Off and on. Even solitary predators sometimes need the company of their own kind. A benefit you lacked all these years.”

  “What are you talking about?” Roger burst out. “Damn it, I don't believe—”

  Volnar leaped up from the chair. “You don't believe what you are? Well, I'll show you.” He grabbed Roger's arm. Roger bared his teeth in a snarl, then relaxed when he remembered the futility of his earlier resistance. He allowed Volnar to pull him to his feet and guide him to the dresser.

  “There,” said Volnar. “Throw away your preconceptions, open your eyes, and look!”

  Side by side with the older man, Roger gazed into the mirror. The room still lay in darkness except for street lights shining through the window. In the reflected image, Volnar's eyes glowed red like smoldering embers. And so did Roger's.

  Roger lurched back to the chair. He sat with his head bowed on his hands until Volnar gave him a refilled glass of brandy.

  “You actually avoided noticing that, all these years.”

  Roger looked up, to find Volnar seated opposite him again. “I don't make a habit of staring into mirrors in the dark.” He congratulated himself on the steadiness of his voice. “How can I be—what you are? I don't have Sylvia's range of powers.”

  “Listen carefully. I am going to tell you a story.” Volnar got out a pack of cigars and offered them to Roger, who empha-tically refused.

  “I'd expect you to be immune to nicotine addiction.”

  “I am,” Volnar said. “Therefore I can indulge without fear of consequences.” He clipped the end of his cigar, lit it, and moved his chair next to an open window. “Now, pay attention.” He took a couple of thoughtful puffs. “Consider a nonhuman species living secretly in the midst ofHomo sapiens. These creatures are phenomenally long-lived—virtually immortal, unless destroyed by dismemberment or cremation. They have a variety of talents that would appear supernatural to the average mortal. But they also have weaknesses, such as sensitivity to sunlight and a highly restricted diet. Where their existence is believed at all, they are feared and loathed.

  “A female of that race lived in a French village in the nineteen-thirties. She ‘fell in love’”—Roger could hear the quota-tion marks—"with a human male. Now, erotic liaisons between the two species are not uncommon, even those lasting for some time. But deep attachment on the part of the—vampire—is rare. Some of our people were outraged when Claudette actually married her human lover. They thought she debased herself by making such a contract with an ephemeral. Among us marriage does not exist, because our females are sexually receptive only once every few years, and fertile even less often. When it became known that Claudette had not only committed herself in this unprecedented way, but had entered estrus and allowed herself to conceive by an ephemeral, some of the elders demanded that she be ostracized.

  “As her advisor, I argued on the other side. Though legends told of such conceptions, none had been confirmed within living memory. The scientific possibilities were boundless. I maintained that if the pregnancy came to term, the offspring should be nurtured and carefully watched. So I kept in touch with Claudette, and she did indeed give birth to a live infant with mingled traits of both vampire and human. Certain indications—aversion to sunlight, rapid healing from minor abrasions—suggested the dominance of vampire genes.

  “There were complications beyond our control, however. The war's effects reached even the remote village where Claudette and her husband lived. Suspicion, taken to paranoid lengths, became the norm. Anyone who seemed peculiar was at risk. What had once been outmoded superstition became plausible again. Claudette knew she was suspected of vampirism and placed the child in the temporary care of her husband's cousin, with instructions to contact me in case of disaster. The couple planned to flee the country, picking up the infant at the last possible moment. Before they could get away, they were caught by the local populace and murdered.”

  Roger was stunned by this dry recital. “My parents.”

  “Exactly,” said Volnar. “This was 1940, and you were slightly over a year old. I got you out of France and found a middle-aged, childless couple delighted at the chance to adopt a ‘war orphan’ on my terms. One condition was that you keep the name you were originally given.”

  “Why?” Roger said. “It made things even more difficult for me.” His birth certificate read “Roger Sean Gallagher Darvell.” Until high school graduation he had used “Gallagher,” his adopted parents’ name. In college he'd begun to hyphenate the two. After his father's death, in a small gesture of rebellion, he had switched to the simpler alternative of “Darvell” without the hyphen.

  “I see you're using your birth names now, however,” said Volnar. “By the time your parents were murdered, you'd had fourteen months of life to get accustomed to ‘Roger Darvell.’ It isn't unusual for our children to remember experiences from that age. I didn't want you confused by suddenly having your name changed.”

  “Kind of you. Too bad you didn't give a second thought to all the rest of the confusion.”

  Ignoring the sarcastic tone, Volnar said, “Did you remember anything of your pre-Boston life? When I brought you to the United States, you were already speaking three-word sentences in French.”

  “No, no memories of infancy.” Something did spring to mind, though. “Interesting—when I studied French in high school, it seemed to come naturally to me, as if I'd heard it before.” He resorted to the brandy again to cushion the shock of Volnar's “story.” “So I actually had.”

  The elder vampire nodded. “I'd hoped that keeping your ori-ginal name might trigger more substantive memories, help you realize your true nature when the time came. Worth a try, even though it didn't work.” He drew deeply on the cigar. Even with the window open, its smoke made Roger feel suffocated. “I kept watch o
ver you, from a discreet distance, until you completed your medical training. Thereafter I heard nothing until Sylvia met you.”

  “You engineered that?”

  “Only in the sense that I introduced her to Mrs. Bronson,” said Volnar. “I expected Sylvia to encounter you, but she was quite honest in claiming to know nothing about your background. I needed to witness your reactions to each other, untainted by any prior knowledge on your part.”

  “But what was the point?” said Roger impatiently. “Why wasn't I brought up by—as you put it—my own kind?”

  “An experiment,” said Volnar. “We wanted to see how much about yourself you would discover on your own, how well you'd adapt to human society without direct guidance. We needed to know whether a human-vampire hybrid was viable in a social as well as a physical sense.”

  “Experiment!” Roger stalked across the room, refilled his glass, drained it without pausing for breath, and glared at Volnar. “Good God, if you knew how many times I've contemplated suicide, thinking I was some kind of psychotic—! What gives you the right to experiment on human lives?”

  The older vampire regarded him coldly. “You aren't human, remember? I am your advisor—guardian and mentor, you would say—just as I was your mother's. I'm also the oldest of our race, the head of our Council of Elders.”

  Roger poured himself another shot of brandy. “How old?”

  “Older than you could imagine. I've outlived most human civilizations.”

  “I'm supposed to believe all this on the strength of your word?”

  Volnar's eyebrows arched. “Why would I bother to lie to you?” The top layer of his mental shield dissolved, allowing Roger to glimpse his sincerity.

  Unless he's so powerful he can project a lie, Roger thought. With only Sylvia to judge by, how could he know what Volnar might be capable of? “If you're unimaginably ancient,” he said, “I suppose you've come here to offer me the wisdom of the ages.”

  “That is a human concept. We adopt all cultural elements from the societies around us—including language. We're prag-matists. Philosophy, like art, literature, science, and technology, istheir specialty.”