To Roger, irritating Volnar sounded like a worthwhile pursuit. He approved of his half-brother, sight unseen. He conjured up a mental image of the Anglo-French actor he'd observed in several low-budget films—tall, lean, pale, dark-haired, sensual, like a cross between Lord Byron and a young Christopher Lee. No telling how much of that gaunt, broodingly handsome look came from makeup, of course.Probably a lot less than I ima-gined! "It never crossed my mind. The name isn't that uncom-mon.” An unpleasant thought struck him. “Doesn't Sylvia know who Claude is? She must have suspected a relationship. Why didn't she say anything to me?”
“Because that would have betrayed his secrets without his permission. She's a wild young creature, but she does follow the basic rules. Now that I've given him permission, your brother will get in touch with you. The sibling tie is the most important family relationship we recognize, the only one that remains strong in adulthood.”
Acid welled up in Roger's throat. “If it's so damned important, why didn't he get in touch with me a long time ago?”
“Because, as I told you, I forbade it. He's about two cen-turies older than you, but by our standards, that is still young. He knew better than to violate my orders.”
Roger leaned back and closed his eyes. Emotional overload, combined with the smoke and too much brandy, gave him a stabbing headache.
Volnar surveyed him as if evaluating his condition and assigning a grade of D-minus. “You're in worse shape than I realized. How often do you feed? From human donors, that is.”
Roger evaded the older man's steady gaze. Did he have to be so confoundedly direct?
“Come, now, Roger, a physician shouldn't overreact to a simple diagnostic question. As your advisor, I have not only the right but the duty to ask.”
“Every two or three weeks.”
He had the dubious satisfaction of getting a reaction out of his advisor—outraged astonishment."Three weeks?” Volnar was actually speechless for a moment. Then he went on, “I withdraw my criticism of your behavior. It's surprising you are able to function at all. Even considering your mixed heritage, abstaining for that long is insane. I'd estimate that you need human blood at least once a week. What in blazes were you thinking of? If you can call it thinking.”
“It seems obvious,” Roger said stiffly, “that the lower the frequency, the less chance of exposure.”
“Up to a point, yes, until you run into the range of diminishing returns. Don't you see that your exaggerated caution may lead to a condition in which you couldn't help committing some reckless act? You are without a doubt the most thoroughgoing idiot I have ever had the misfortune to advise.”
Volnar checked his harangue and added more calmly, “You defeated your own purpose. Moderation, young man, moderation.” He put the room key in his pocket. “Come along, we're going for a walk. Staying inside and watching you writhe in agony is an uncomfortable way of spending the night.”
The suggestion appealed to Roger. Outdoors, the breeze would dissipate Volnar's cigar smoke. They took the stairs rather than the elevator and set out at a brisk pace up West Street away from Church Circle. They walked past restaurants, art galleries, and boutiques toward the more commercial section of town.
Volnar spoke in a low voice that would have been inaudible to human ears a few feet away. “You're ignorant of the risk you were taking. Vampires have been known to go mad from being too long deprived of human blood. In situations where sufficient animal prey is available to keep the body from falling into a protective coma—I've seen the results, and they are appalling.”
“How was I to know?” said Roger impatiently. “How long is too long?”
“The optimum interval is forty-eight to seventy-two hours. Preferably no less often than twice a week, and even in your special case, certainly no less than once a week.”
Easy enough to say, Roger reflected.Where does he expect me to get this endless supply of victims?
Volnar continued in a lecturing tone, “In addition to milk and blood, we require psychic energy—'life-force,’ if you will. That is what makes frequent access to human prey essential. One could, of course, live entirely on human blood, but that would be wasteful and hazardous. If the physical need for bulk nourishment is supplied by the vital fluids of lower animals, the quantity taken from human donors can be quite small. Quality and frequency are more important.”
Though Roger had figured out most of this on his own, he was glad to have his empirical findings confirmed. The information was of no help on a practical level, however, and he said so to Volnar.
“Your problem, young man,” said Volnar, “is that you refuse to come to terms with what you are. You now have no excuse to deny that you are a vampire.” Roger winced at the pulp-horror word. “You see, that's precisely my point. Your morbidly hyperactive conscience has flogged you into the belief that if you deny your nature most of the time, fulfilling its demands only when absolutely driven, you are somehow less guilty. Well, I intend to knock those spineless evasions out of you if it kills you.”
“If I tried that kind of reality therapy on my own patients,” Roger said, “I'd find myself up on malpractice charges.”
“That's better,” Volnar chuckled. “Now channel some of that fight in the proper direction. Your present behavior pattern is suicidal. If you're that eager to die, at least do it in some way that doesn't endanger the rest of us.”
“I don't want to die,” Roger said. He realized that the state-ment was unequivocally true for the first time since he'd begun preying on human victims.
“Wonderful,” said Volnar dryly. As they walked on in silence, he continued puffing on the cigar. After a while he said, “If you're serious about that resolve, begin by correcting the problem that is distracting you at this moment.”
Embarrassed, Roger avoided his piercing stare.
“You're doing it again,” Volnar said. “What are you feeling right now?”
“Principally annoyed with you.” If, in the vampire subcul-ture, “advisor” was partially equivalent to “therapist,” he had to put up with this prying. But he didn't have to pretend to like it. Besides, Volnar could doubtless read his emotions like large print.
“Principally?” said Volnar sharply.
“Why do you insist on my verbalizing it?” Roger demanded. “Do you get that much pleasure out of raking me over the coals?”
“It is not a pleasure at all. I do this because it's what you require. I'm trying to help you, you blasted idiot.” His voice held no kindness; Volnar reminded Roger of certain doctors he'd known during his internship, who viewed both patients and medical students as unavoidable nuisances and feebleminded as well. Roger, to his mild surprise, found the edge of contempt in Volnar's tone bracing.
“All right, damn you, I'm thirsty!” he burst out. Glancing around to see whether any other pedestrians were close enough to hear him, he lowered his voice. “And I wish you'd quit harping on the subject.” He calmed himself and examined his sensations. “I shouldn't be; I fed only five nights ago. And the truth is, my system is so upset after what I saw tonight—and what Sandor threatened me with—that I'm not sure I could take the opportunity if it were offered.”
“You will force yourself, then,” said Volnar, discarding his cigarette. “I'm taking you out to dinner.”
“You've had a destination in mind all along?”
“Certainly.” They passed the public library, set back from the street on a broad lawn, and turned into the residential streets behind it. “Earlier tonight, I spoke to one of the hotel's clerks going off duty. I determined that she lives alone and ordered her to leave her bedroom window open—none of which she consciously remembers, of course.”
“You're going to take the chance of entering a house?”
“The donor will not wake. And if we exercise reasonable caution, neither will anyone else.”
Roger thought the plan was riskier than anything he'd ever done, but his thirst left him in no mood to argue.
“I assure you, the risk will be negligible.” Volnar stopped in front of an small box-shaped house with tall hedges and a red brick facade with white siding. “Can you do this?” he said in the same prison-yard whisper he'd used earlier. And he shadowed himself. But in Volnar's case it would be more accurate to say he vanished. Even Roger, knowing where and how to look for him, perceived only a faint shimmer from his aura.
“Not that well,” said Roger. He demonstrated his best effort.
“All right,” said Volnar. “More than enough to deceive any casual passer-by.” He veiled himself again, as did Roger. They slipped behind the hedge and glided silently around the corner of the house. Roger followed the ghost of Volnar's presence, which became easier to detect with practice, to the rear of the property. Volnar prowled around the backyard, listening at windows and sniffing the air. Finally, dropping the invisibility, he stopped to push up a screen. The window itself, as predicted, was already open.
Roger still had doubts, but when Volnar climbed over the sill, he couldn't do much except follow. They were in the bedroom of a young woman barely out of her teens, clothes scattered on the floor, the bureau and dresser buried under mounds of cosmetics and magazines. Bookshelves near the open closet door held an assortment of stuffed animals, paperback romances, and trilogies of the Tolkien-clone type. The air was thick with cologne and powder, overlaying the muskily sweet perfume of the girl's body.
She lay curled on her side in a double bed, an extra pillow hugged to her chest. Long, black hair streamed over the sheets, lending her a romantic appearance that probably would have been dispelled in seconds if she'd awakened and spoken. But ap-parently Volnar didn't intend for that to happen. “Are you planning to—to take her asleep?” said Roger. “That's practically rape. When I have to do it this way, at least I wake them up first.”
Volnar arched an eyebrow at him. “Is that how you appease your overactive conscience?” He pronounced the last word like the name of a disease. “By deluding yourself that half-conscious participation equals willingness? When you feed on your patients, they are in hypnotic trance, are they not?”
“Well—yes.” On reflection Roger had to admit that there wasn't much difference from the victim's point of view. But for the predator—"You can't get much satisfaction from someone who's completely out of it.”
“One of the first sensible comments you've made,” Volnar said. “The solution is simple, however. Inducing REM sleep is easy, and passion experienced in a dream is no less intense than in a trance.” He moved to the bedside and placed a hand on the girl's forehead. With a small sigh she turned on her back. Volnar stroked her hair and ran his fingers along the curve of her jaw. Roger noted the flicker of her eyelids that indicated the dreaming phase. To his heightened senses, the throb of her pulse made the air of the room vibrate. He watched Volnar turn the sheet down to her waist, revealing a low-cut cotton nightgown whose thin material didn't conceal the swell of her breasts and the dark peaks of the nipples.
Roger took a step closer, fighting dizziness. A sharp glance from Volnar warned him off. “Privilege of rank?” he whispered hoarsely.
“Yes, if I choose to exercise it,” said Volnar, abstractedly caressing the girl as if in no particular hurry. “You'll find, however, that I am doing you a favor.” Roger hadn't the strength to challenge his advisor; he sank into the nearest chair and watched. Volnar showed no sign of acute need. His strongest emotion, as he bent over the victim, seemed to be cool appre-ciation.
When he pierced her skin, the sharp scent of fresh blood cut through the heavy air of the bedroom. Roger's stomach con-tracted painfully. Anticipation sent a bolt of electricity from his parched throat straight to his groin and made the cilia in his palms bristle. The bloodlust, though it combined both hunger and thirst, was more than either. The tormenting promise of satisfaction set his nerves thrumming.
Only two or three minutes passed before Volnar withdrew. Roger could detect no change in him other than a slight decrease in tension and a subtle brightening of his aura. “She's well under now,” he said. “There is no chance of her waking. And I believe you are thoroughly prepared.”
True, watching Volnar had roused Roger's appetite beyond control. As if entranced himself, he sat on the edge of the bed and leaned over the girl. Blood still trickled from the tiny incision in her neck. Ordinarily he would have spent several minutes mesmerizing the victim, to ensure that his kiss would bestow pleasure instead of pain. That work had been done for him. Nevertheless he did linger for a few seconds, savoring the emotions that stirred in her dreaming mind and her body's unconscious response to his touch.
A few seconds were all he could endure. He lay across her, acutely aware of the warmth of her skin, even through layers of clothing. He feasted on the rich taste of blood, mingled with salt and a trace of talcum. Tingling heat radiated from the point of contact, where his lips clung to her throat, through every cell. Wave after wave of sensation surged over him. He hardly noticed the sleeping girl's climax, except as an additional ripple of pleasure in the flood of ecstasy. He lay submerged in it for a timeless interval.
A firm hand on his shoulder brought him out. With a snarl he turned on Volnar, who said mildly, “Ten minutes should be quite enough.” Roger became aware of discrete sensations again—the tang of blood in his mouth, the moist smoothness of the girl's flesh, the varied textures of her gown and the bed covers, the humming of insects through the open window, the breeze fluttering the ruffled curtains. He stood up—and staggered with vertigo. A natural effect of being pulled abruptly out of that warm scarlet fog.
“Sit down for a moment, and you'll soon recover,” said Volnar. As usual he spoke coldly, the dispassionate diagnostician.
Roger obeyed, still feeling as if he were floating. He gradually settled back to normal and processed Volnar's remarks. “Ten minutes? Youtimed me, for God's sake?”
“You wouldn't want to drain her to the danger point, I suppose, and I had no intention of allowing you to. Do you deny that it was—adequate?”
Roger didn't have to consider that question for long. “Of course not. More than ‘adequate.'”
They left just as they'd entered, Volnar closing the screen on the way out. No one lurked nearby to observe their departure, not even a police car on patrol. A cool drizzle fell as they headed back toward downtown.
“Won't she notice the wound on her neck?” Roger asked a block later. He'd wondered about this problem before but hadn't thought to discuss it with Sylvia. “Even though it's small, how will she explain it to herself? Suppose it jogs her memory about you, somehow?”
“You do worry entirely too much, young man,” the elder said. “Not likely, since an enzyme in our saliva causes small bite marks to heal within a day or two and prevents infection, as well. Besides, I took the obvious precaution of commanding her not to notice.”
Yes, it was obvious, and Roger felt annoyed with himself at not thinking of it before.
On the way back to the hotel Volnar didn't smoke; ap-parently tobacco served him as a substitute for the real thing. After a while he said, “Make sure you never get into that con-dition again. That is an order.”
“I'd be happy to obey—sir—but how do you suggest I arrange it?”
“You seemed to have learned to manage discreetly, for the most part,” Volnar said. “But on occasion you do need fully con-scious cooperation. That's what you are starved for.”
“I'd think revealing our true nature to victims would be the last thing you'd approve of.”
“That is not necessary,” said Volnar in a tone of over-strained patience. “Have you thought of patronizing prostitutes?”
Roger found the idea distasteful and said so.
“Of course, one has to be careful of tainted blood. Though you're immune to disease yourself, I daresay your scruples would balk at becoming a carrier. But you should be able to discern any traces of sickness and avoid it.”
“I'm supposed to tell them I want to bite them and
suck their blood? Isn't that a little too—exotic—for most ladies of the evening?”
Volnar laughed softly. “You don't have to be quite that explicit. The important thing is that they know you don't require penetration, which means less work for them. Your paid partner may not realize exactly what you're doing to her, but she'll enjoy it and get well compensated, which should silence your moral qualms.”
“I'll consider it,” said Roger. The cold calculation of Vol-nar's approach repelled him.Oh, exploiting patients is so much better, is it?
“Another advantage—there's no risk of emotional involvement, always a hazard when a personal relationship exists between predator and prey. That was Sylvia's downfall.”
“She didn't make that clear,” said Roger. “I can understand her attraction to that boy, Rico. The way she described it, his passion must have been—incredibly seductive. But enough to keep her returning to him when it threatened her safety?”
“You really don't understand, do you? You haven't experienced that kind of obsession yet. It wasn't a purely emotional attachment; she was addicted to him. The usual consequence of returning again and again to a preferred donor. And if there's a certain psychic compatibility, one can become ‘hooked’ after two or three encounters.” Sensing Roger's polite skepticism, he added, “Oh, it will happen to you eventually; you may as well accept that. Just try to arrange that when it does, the donor is someone you can enjoy on other levels besides the obvious.”
“You talk as if arranging all these ideal conditions were as easy as—as buying a case of wine.”
“Simply take the precaution of varying your targets, never using the same donor more than once or twice over a long period of time. It's a genuine physiological phenomenon, and you must not underestimate its force. You have readCarmilla , no doubt?”
Dark Changeling Page 17
