Tears burned Roger's eyes. He refused to let them fall. “Damn you,” he whispered. A sharp pain in his chest gradually faded. He realized he had collapsed on the bed. He carefully sat up, becoming aware that the subjective drama had taken only a few seconds of objective time. He returned Volnar's stony gaze. “Have you no compassion?”
“A human virtue” answered Volnar. “One they seldom practice.” Aloud he said, “I had to convince you of that, and time is too short for subtlety. Are we agreed that the millennial dawn of interspecies cooperation is not at hand? Good—I trust you won't commit any further indiscretions like betraying one of our kind to human ‘justice'?”
Roger subdued his anger and spoke coldly. “Are you saying that Sandor should be left free to slaughter innocent people?”
With an impatient wave of his hand, Volnar said, “The matter of ‘innocence’ is irrelevant. My point is that allowing Neil to be captured would expose our entire race to carnage that would reduce the depredations of one outlaw to insignificance.”
“So all you're going to do about it is look for his sister and hope she knows where he is? Not to mention whether he'll even listen to her. You're the Prime Elder; you're supposed to be practically omniscient. Don't you have any way of tracking a single ‘outlaw'?”
Volnar said, “Ordinarily his advisor could. However, his case is anomalous. At the onset of puberty he refused to bond with the woman chosen for his advisor, as he should have. According to her, Neil acquired his psychic gifts abnormally late, almost seventeen. Then they flooded upon him in full strength, substituting a fresh terror for his fear that he would never develop into adulthood. He ran away from his advisor and tried to teach himself. She's washed her hands of both Neil and his sister.”
Roger felt a twinge of unwilling sympathy for the sadistic killer. “I can imagine how difficult that must have been.”
“From what I've heard about Neil, I suspect his perception has remained duller than normal. If he needs violent emotion to get the nourishment the rest of us absorb from more subtle stimuli, that would account for his obsession with pain and horror.”
“Very well, he has problems,” Roger said. What a challenge Sandor would pose for a psychoanalyst! “That makes him more dangerous, not less. But as long as he doesn't expose your secret to the world, the people he kills mean nothing to you.” He tried to stand up, making his head reel all over again.
“You're in no condition to drive.” Volnar gathered brief-case, suitcases, and other personal property as he talked. “You need to rest and assimilate what I've poured into you. I'm checking out now and going to the airport. I'll turn in the key, but the room won't be disturbed until the maid shows up tomorrow morning. You stay here until you feel less agitated.”
Though he hated to accept a favor from Volnar after being assaulted with the memory of Claudette's murder, Roger had to agree. He doubted he could walk to his car without staggering, much less drive.
“And keep me informed,” Volnar said as he paused at the door, luggage in hand. “No matter what you think of me personally, that is what an advisor is for.”
He stepped out. Roger heard the door latch click shut. A wave of exhaustion swamped him. He wanted nothing more than to sink into oblivion. For the first time in months, he felt tired enough to sleep during the night. At the last minute he remem-bered to set his wristwatch alarm for five a.m. Despite his confusion and anger, a pleasant thought struck him. Once he gave Sylvia the profuse apology he owed her, they would be able to talk. Now that he knew the truth, they had so much to discuss. He fell asleep with a vision of the two of them hunting and feasting together in the woods behind his home.
* * * *
ELECTRICITY SIZZLED along Sylvia's nerves. In the post-midnight darkness under the trees behind Roger's townhouse complex, she paced back and forth, rubbing her arms. Despite the dryness in her throat, she knew it wasn't blood she needed. That wouldn't quench the fire at her core.
Why wasn't Roger home when she needed him? If she didn't get in contact with him in time, whom else could she turn to?Why did I have to be so stubborn? If she'd gone to Nevada as soon as the symptoms began, her advisor or the Prime Elder would have arranged a mate for her in plenty of time. Instead, she'd counted on the chance of catching Roger off guard.Stupid! If sexual desire did this to human beings, no wonder they be-haved so irrationally! Imagine spending one's whole life in the throes of this agony!
No, human sexuality couldn't be like this. From touching the minds of her donors, Sylvia knew their passion reached an unbearable peak only in the last few minutes before climax. It didn't maintain this intensity hour after hour. She shivered as her erect nipples brushed against the fabric of her blouse. She wanted to strip off her scratchy, binding clothes and run naked through the woods.
I may have to take an ordinary man. And they're so limited!
Swift footsteps broke the cycle of her thoughts. She whirled to face the sound. She caught her breath at the sight of the man threading his way among the trees.
“Good evening, Sylvia—or morning, I guess. Don't tell me you were planning to give yourself to the halfbreed?”
She hated the way her heart raced at the sound of his voice. “What are you talking about, Neil?”
“Your friend, the doctor. It took me a while to find out, but a few of our people still talk to me. The ones who know homo saps are just food. The ones who gag at the thought of mating with them.” He glided closer to her. She felt a rush of warmth between her legs. “You didn't know the doc's father was human?”
For an instant Sylvia forgot her discomfort. “No, I didn't, and neither did he. That explains a lot.”
Suddenly Neil's arms wrapped around her. His heartbeat and breathing thundered in her ears. “Well, now that you do, you wouldn't want to waste yourself on him, even if he were here. Isn't it a good thing I just happened to show up?”
“Do you expect me to believe that?” She squirmed feebly, helpless against the assault of his strength and her lust, and felt the pressure of his erection. “What are you doing here?” A spasm of arousal, deep inside, fought against her contempt for him.
“Followed you from the motel. I wanted to talk to you anyway—and now it's more than talk.” He moved one hand upward to grasp her by the hair. “I've had enough of you hanging around with the halfbreed. Whose side are you on?”
“No side—I'm neutral,” she gasped. “All I want is to be left alone. I was planning to move on soon anyway.”
He grinned, the rotten-meat odor of his breath hitting her in the face. She wondered whether he slept in an abandoned building or even on the ground under a layer of brush; he didn't seem to have paid any attention to personal hygiene for a long time. “Think I'd let you get away with that, little one? Neutral, hell! If you're not on my side, we're enemies. Now I know you didn't turn me in—but how can I trust you not to help the doc against me, if you don't give me some sign?”
“What?” she breathed. Much as she loathed the man, she caught herself wiggling against him, aching for closer contact.
“Easy. Remember what fun we had hunting together, before you got squeamish? You join me again. And we'll start with a private celebration.” His other hand kneaded her buttocks. Her rebellious flesh responded with another gush of hot liquid.
“No.” She could manage no more than a feeble whisper.
“Everything but your mouth says yes. And if you have a baby—sure, I know it's almost unheard-of, the first time, but if—we can be untraditional and bring it up our own way.”
What a grotesque idea, Sylvia thought. Imagine a baby trained in Neil's way of life—just the revenge against the elders his warped mind would hatch.
Neil's fiery eyes taunted her as he gripped her head, his fin-gers tangled in her hair, and tore her bermuda shorts down the front.
Sylvia's struggles did no more than entertain him. Though male and female vampires differed less in size and strength than human men and women, Neil was unusually large f
or his species, as well as older than Sylvia. Deep within, also, she knew she wasn't fighting him with her full strength.
He shoved her onto her back, hard. She scarcely noticed the shock of hitting the ground. Through her blouse his nails raked her shoulders and breasts. She felt his beard rasping her cheek, then his teeth scraping her collarbone. She let out a choked cry. He unzipped his pants. The feel of his hard shaft against her belly made her skin ripple, inside and out. She clawed at him, scenting the pungent odor of his blood, yet her legs involuntarily opened to his thrust.
“Are you going to scream? Be my guest.”
She didn't. The townhouse complex was too close, and the taboo against drawing human attention was too deeply ingrained. She would endure Neil's violation—stop lying to yourself, girl, you'll enjoy it!— until he exhausted his lust and left her alone.And if I do get pregnant, by some impossible fluke, I'll kill it!
But she did sob tearlessly under her breath when he pounded into her—sobbed with shame at the ecstatic convulsions that racked her body.
Six mutual orgasms later, the sobs escalated to shrieks when his teeth ripped into her throat.
* * * *
A WHITE SQUARE on the foyer carpet caught Roger's eye. What remained of his well-fed contentment wilted like a pricked balloon.
He focused his infrared-sensitive vision on the piece of paper. No heat traces, so the message had been delivered at least fifteen minutes ago. He knelt to pick up the note. A whiff of the metallic odor he associated with vampires drifted to his nose. Sylvia? No, he would recognize her scent. As hesitantly as a child creeping alone into a dark room, he unfolded the paper.
Welcome home, Darvell. I left something for you in the woods behind your building, unless somebody else has removed it by now. Go about a hundred yards due north.
— N. S.
* * * *
DEAR GOD, not another body!Crumpling the note and shoving it into a pocket, Roger dashed to the back door, unfastened chain and bolt with shaking hands, and raced into the woods. By now the drizzle had grown to a light but steady rain. Once he got a few yards under the trees, he didn't need Sandor's directions. The smell of death overwhelmed the fragrance of sap and pine needles.
Roger slowed to a brisk walk. He did not want to see this. He knew, though, that he had to check out the site before the police examined it. The murderer might have left evidence that implicated Roger.
No patch of heat served as a beacon to guide him, but the white of her face and the red smears from neck to groin snared his vision. All warmth had long since seeped out of her flesh.
Roger fell to his knees a couple of feet from the corpse.Sylvia! His head buzzed as if from a concussion. Still mercifully numb, he leaned closer, careful not to touch the blood-soaked leaves around the body. Her blouse and shorts had been ripped to shreds, as had the skin beneath. She lay on her back with arms and legs splayed wide apart. Something was wrong with the angle of her neck.
Good God, he'd torn off her head!
So she can't regenerate.Roger's numbness yielded to nausea. He turned and staggered through the underbrush, managing to get well away from the murder site before vomiting. Long after his stomach emptied itself, he crouched on all fours, retching up his anguish. Eventually the dry heaves gave way to sobs. Vampires, Sylvia had once told him, didn't cry tears. Roger hadn't inherited that limitation. Tears scorched his eyes and cheeks, choking him until he almost got sick all over again.
Exhausted at last, feeling as if he'd ejected every drop of fluid in his body, he scooped pine straw over the mess on the ground. Even now, he had the presence of mind to realize he mustn't leave evidence. He trotted unsteadily back home.
The first thing he did was to tear the note from Sandor into tiny scraps and rinse them down the garbage disposal. Next he sat down in the living room to think.
Clearly Sandor intended Sylvia's death as a warning. He was closing in, destroying a person important to Roger, as well as sending the signal that he had no compunctions about killing one of his own race. Roger knew he had to report the murder. Waiting for it to be discovered by someone else could lead to awkward questions.
Another problem came to mind—an autopsy on Sylvia might provide data that could endanger the vampire community. How much did vampires differ, on the gross anatomical level, fromHomo sapiens ? It couldn't be helped; he had no reliable way of concealing the body.Anyhow, I owe the vampire community damn near zero!
He went into his office and dialed Lieutenant Hayes’ home number.
“Dr. Darvell? Surprised to hear from you. Something wrong?” said the detective's sleep-thickened voice.
“Yes.” Roger paused to force his breathing under control. “I was away from home overnight, visiting with a friend from out of town. When I got back, I went for a walk in the woods, as I often do.” His neighbors would confirm that habit, if any suspicion arose.
“In the rain?”
“A little rain doesn't bother me—it's refreshing.” He swallowed hard. “It seems a—another friend of mine who's been staying in the area for a few weeks stopped by while I was gone. I found her—back there—” To his shame, he couldn't finish the sentence.
Hayes’ drowsy voice shifted gears to professional crispness. “I'll be right over.”
Chapter 13
ROGER ENDURED an agonizing Friday at the office, avoiding Britt for fear she would notice his distress and comment on it. On top of the shock of Sylvia's murder, stray fragments of data from Volnar's “download” floated into his consciousness like bubbles rising to the surface of a pond. He returned home that night to the head-splitting jangle of the telephone.
When he picked it up, Volnar said with no preliminary greeting, “Sylvia is dead.”
Roger swallowed a mouthful of acid and said, “How did you know?”
The elder's voice drilled into his ear like an ice pick. “Through our bond. In her death pangs, she won the strength to call out to me. I couldn't go to her. I was in the air above the middle of the Atlantic.”
“I didn't think the—bond—reached that far.” His lungs felt squeezed so that he could hardly breathe.
“Ordinarily not. That was her death cry. But if you had shared a bond with her, you could have heard her thoughts—her pain.”
“Damn you, Volnar—” A wave of faintness swept over Roger. He collapsed into the desk chair.
The voice continued implacably, “You might have sensed the danger in time to cover those few miles and save her.”
“You're blaming me for Sylvia's death?”
“Neil Sandor attacked her because of you, did he not?”
“Yes.”What the hell do you expect me to do about it now?
Volnar answered the unspoken question. “Neil has murdered one of our own people. He is now under sentence of death. He's in your territory, your responsibility. If you have the chance to destroy him, you are ordered to do so. And do your best to ensure that the corpse is not autopsied.”
“You seriously think I can—”
“So far, his sister refuses to be found,” Volnar said. “Since you are his target, he'll eventually come to you. When he does, you must deal with him. I assume you don't want any more deaths on your damned human conscience.” He hung up, leaving Roger racked with anger and grief.
* * * *
AFTER TIPTOEING around the issue, Lieutenant Hayes, persuaded by the same hypnotic pressure that convinced him of Roger's innocent-bystander status, yielded to his demand for a copy of Sylvia's autopsy. The report was hand-delivered Sunday morning just as Roger got home from early Mass at St. Mary's in downtown Annapolis. Postponing sleep, which he dreaded for the dreams it would spawn, he shut himself in his home office to study the file immediately.
The familiar medical terminology made reading it less of an ordeal than he'd feared. He told himself that the extent of the butchery shouldn't have surprised him. Clawing Sylvia's torso, biting her throat, and breaking her neck before tearing off her head were typical of Sa
ndor'smodus operandi . The Medical Examiner didn't hazard a guess as to what weapon had performed that last operation.He'd never suspect Sandor did it barehanded, Roger thought.
One surprising element, though—she had been raped.
That must puzzle Hayes, since the murderer had raped none of his other victims. Roger understood, though, when he recalled Sylvia's plea for him to mate with her. She'd been entering the first stages of estrus. It must have peaked Friday night, when Sandor waylaid her.
She asked for my help. If I'd given her what she wanted—!
He refused to let himself break down again. Shutting off the incipient flood of grief, he scanned the rest of the post mortem. So many anomalous details—Sylvia's digestive tract, her blood type, the shape of her teeth—blazoned her strangeness. Roger hoped that, given the human reluctance to believe the impossible, the police would ascribe the oddities to some obscure congenital deformity.
Do I care whether the vampire species is exposed to public view? If so, why?His anger over the way Volnar had treated him still simmered. Yet he couldn't deny an impulse to shield his own kind. Volnar expected him to destroy the renegade for the good of their race. How the devil was he supposed to accomplish that?
He recalled Sandor's request for a meeting. Much as Roger hated the idea, he decided to place that personal ad. What he would do when he met his antagonist, he hadn't figured out. He composed a brief message: “N. S.—All right, let's talk. Call me at home.—R. D.”
Monday morning he phoned in the ad to the AnnapolisCapital , paying extra to have it set in oversize type. That done, he arrived at work fortified by an illusion of accomplishment.
He found Britt waiting on his office couch.
As soon as he'd shut the door, giving them privacy, she sprang to her feet and said in a low, rapid voice, “Hayes gave me all the details of what happened Friday night. Roger, why didn't you tell me? Why thehell didn't you tell me?”
He shrank from the blast of emotion she hurled at him. “I knew the detective would fill you in. My giving you the same information would have been redundant.”
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