Roger was amazed at the intensity of his own rage. The worst, he thought, was the subtext of that emotion—not a chivalrous, “Unhand that damsel, you cad,” but a predator's roar of, “Hands off—she's mine!” Forgetting diplomacy, he lunged at Sandor.
The vampire jerked Britt to his chest, facing him, and placed his bared teeth against the side of her neck. Roger saw her cringe, her face twisting with disgust. “Not another inch, Darvell.”
Roger stepped back. Britt tamed her revulsion and said quietly, “You don't have to go through all that—what's your name?”
“Call me Neil.” His hand still encircled her throat, but not so tightly.
“You were right, Neil, I do want intercourse with a vampire. A real one.” Sandor shot Roger a triumphant glance. Did his egoism blind him so thoroughly he couldn't penetrate Britt's insincerity? Good—but Roger doubted her fake submission could disarm Sandor enough to tip the balance their way. “Give me a chance to experience it to the fullest,” she purred. “I'm ready to cooperate here and now.”
With another gloating look at Roger, Sandor said, “Don't even think of interfering. How long I let her live is entirely up to you.”
Roger could scarcely keep himself from rushing the killer, against all reason.
“One thing I'd really like, if you don't mind,” Britt said, leaning pliantly against Sandor. “Change back into that—what-ever it was. Giving you my blood would be so much more thril-ling that way.”
The breathy appeal was so foreign to the real Britt that Roger wondered how Sandor could be deceived by it. Volnar must have been right about the renegade's defective empathic power. What was she up to? Under her fascinated gaze, the vampire did begin to flow out of human shape. Roger suddenly thought of the ogre in “Puss in Boots,” devoured when he let himself be flattered into becoming a mouse. But Sandor's alter-nate form had no such weakness.
Wait—didn't it? Seeing the silver-gray wings overshadow Britt, Roger recalled what Sylvia had told him the first time he'd seen her transform. When the molecules were in flux, a vampire was abnormally vulnerable. The wings, in particular, were hyper-sensitive.
How could he use the knowledge, though? Sandor was still watching Roger out of the corner of his eye, while mouthing Britt's throat. Apparently intent on prolonging the suspense, he hadn't yet bitten her. He did, however, relax enough to let go of her arms, instead grasping her around the waist.
“Beautiful,” Britt murmured. “I never dreamed of anything like you.” Her slender hands crept up over his shoulders, cares-singly skimmed over his temples and cheeks. A low growl rumbled in Sandor's chest. Nauseated, Roger ordered himself not to look away. Britt was fighting to give him an opening.
Her body molded itself to Sandor's. Then her thumbs dug into his eye sockets. At the same instant, she rammed a knee into his groin.
Roger could have told her that wouldn't disable Sandor. With undescended testicles, a vampire wasn't sensitive in that spot like a human male. However, the shock of the double attack broke the outlaw's hold on Britt. Roger charged at Sandor, at the same time as Britt fell to her knees and rolled out of the way.
Sandor's claws slashed at Roger's right arm. Springing backward, Roger suddenly thought of the rosary in his shirt pocket. He pulled it out and thrust it toward the other vampire.
To his surprise, the enemy actually retreated. “Halfbreed scum—using human weapons!”
“Your crimes give all of us a bad name.” Roger heard the rasp of his own breathing as well as Sandor's. A crimson haze blurred his vision.
“'Crime’ to you and the rest of Volnar's tame dogs! You think he holds himself to those rules?” Reaching behind him, Sandor ripped a branch off the nearest tree. He swiped at Roger, knocking the rosary to the ground.
Roger attacked Sandor empty-handed. Slipping on the pine needles underfoot, they grappled, Roger struggling to keep his antagonist's claws and teeth away from his neck. Though Sandor's wings quivered with the strain, Roger saw at once that the other vampire was stronger than he. A purely defensive strategy stood no chance.
His peripheral vision glimpsed Britt on her knees, groping on the ground. Damn—if only her eyes could handle the dark like his. Roger focused on Sandor, well aware of the danger of getting distracted a second time. The shimmering wings seemed to mock him.
The wings. Roger relaxed the pressure of his hands, throwing Sandor off balance for a second. As the killer, with a growl of triumph, closed the gap between them, Roger grabbed both wings near the shoulder blades and crumpled the delicate membrane in his fists.
Sandor let out an agonized howl. Roger was vaguely aware of Britt jumping up, the rosary clutched in her hand. She jabbed it at Sandor's chest. The vampire collapsed, stunned, on the ground.
Staring down at him, Roger noticed a second-degree burn where the crucifix had branded the flesh.
Britt gulped a few breaths and said in a shaky voice, “Interesting psychosomatic effect.”
Roger's chest ached from the exertion. He, too, had to catch his breath before he could ask whether she was all right. At the moment he didn't trust his perceptions.
“Sure,” Britt said. “I knew that book on how to survive rape would come in handy someday. What do we do now?”
Roger eyed the prostrate vampire, who had resumed human form as soon as the cross had touched him. Sandor's legs jerked.
“Get back!” Roger ordered Britt, plucking the rosary from her hand.
Sandor struggled to his feet. Roger thrust the crucifix at him. Sandor's lips curled in a snarl. Lurching backward, he shifted from human to winged form and back again like a time-lapse special effect. He seemed weak, disoriented. One good blow should knock him out, and then— Roger lunged for the wounded vampire. Sandor spread his wings once more and rose straight into the air. A lupine howl keened from his throat as he vanished above the trees.
Roger staggered to the bench, dropping the rosary, and sat down. “Damn! I botched it—if I'd followed through right away, instead of assuming he was disabled—” Roger recognized the source of his vacillation. If he'd captured Sandor, he would have had to decide what to do with him. Both turning him over to the police and killing him in cold blood presented difficulties Roger wasn't ready to deal with. “I thought I could handle him on my own. I was wrong.”
“Your eyes,” Britt whispered. “You both have the same eyes.”
“Does that frighten you?”
Britt sat beside him. “Of course not. Don't you give me credit for being able to tell the difference between you andthat ?”
The tightness in his chest eased. “You understand why I didn't want to satisfy your curiosity?” He dared to meet her eyes.
They remained steady. “You can count on my silence.”
“I trust your discretion implicitly.”
Britt flashed him a grateful smile. “I wanted to meet a vampire, and now I've met two—one of whom I've been working with for over a month. I won't do anything to spoil that.” She radiated no fear now; her eyes gleamed with excitement, and her cheeks were flushed.She glows from the inside out, Roger thought.
“That bastard hurt you.” His fingertips hovered near the mark on her neck without quite touching.
“Oh, that? Just a scratch. Doesn't even sting.”
“Still, you'd better get it cleaned as soon as possible.”
He realized her smile had died as she gazed intently at him. “Roger, are you all right?”
“What do you mean, me?” When her fingers brushed his right arm, he looked down and noticed for the first time that Sandor's initial claw-swipe had connected. On Roger's forearm a long gash still dripped blood. He swayed under a surge of dizziness.
Britt's voice, sounding a long distance away, said, “Lie down before you pass out.”
He obeyed. Instead of moving to make room for him, Britt took his head into her lap. He felt her hand fumbling in his hip pocket to extract his handkerchief, which she pressed to the wound.
Recalling
one of the techniques Volnar had conveyed to him during their telepathic link, Roger turned his attention inward, focusing on the laceration. He visualized the blood flow receding, platelets teeming to fill the gash, the skin drawing together. The pain faded.
His head clearing, Roger hastily sat up and removed Britt's hand from his arm. She stared in fascination at the wound, which now looked half-healed. “Thank God that's over,” he muttered, rubbing his eyes.
Britt didn't even look tired. “Speaking of God, I notice you're immune to that cruciphobia.” She handed him the rosary, which he automatically pocketed. “A new symptom for the textbooks—except it won't get into a textbook. Roger, I want to learn everything possible about your species—and you as a unique specimen. Did he mean that ‘halfbreed’ literally?”
Roger saw no point in evasion. Britt held his life in her hands. “Yes, my father was human.”
“Fascinating! Look, Roger, I won't do anything to endanger you, ever. You have my word that nothing you tell me will go any further.”
He went lightheaded with gratitude. “Yes, I believe that.”
“Sure hate to give up my best-selling book.” A half-smile played on her lips. “But a friend is in a different category from a murder case.”
He glanced at his watch without really seeing it. “We mustn't stay here. Sandor might not be as badly hurt as he looked. We can't take the risk of his coming back and catching us off guard. Let's get together for a long talk tomorrow.” He had to separate from Britt soon, or he'd take advantage of her despite his good intentions. The energy drain of the instant healing exercise, on top of the blood loss, had left him famished. The racing of Britt's pulse made his own quicken. He caught himself staring at the V of her blouse, where a button had come unfastened in the scuffle.
“In layman's terms, Roger, you look badly strung out. You're in no shape to navigate. I'm driving you home.”
“Can't leave my car here,” he protested. Good Lord, didn't she have any inkling of how hazardous staying near him would be?
“Fine, I'll drive yours, if you'll trust me at the wheel. The car I borrowed will be safe in the stadium lot until tomorrow. We can swing around to pick it up on the way to the office.”
“What?” A gray mist thickened before his eyes. He shook his head to dispel it.
She leaned closer to him as she spoke. “I'm spending the night at your place. You aren't fit to be left alone.” Why, she was being deliberately provocative! Hadn't the past few minutes taught her any caution?
An almost uncontrollable spasm of hunger racked him. He closed his eyes until it waned, then said, “If you do, I can't answer for the consequences.”
“Pretty slow on the uptake tonight, aren't you?” she said. “I'm counting on those consequences. Even without immortality, I haven't changed my mind about wanting that experience—the right way.”
“No! The risk to you—”
“What risk?” She clasped his hand, sending a renewed shudder of desire through him. “Come on, I know you aren't like Sandor. I saw how you reacted when he— Well, never mind,” she said briskly. “You obviously have similar needs, though, and I owe you something for turning your interview into a disaster.” The teasing smile returned. “Besides, I can't stand by and watch a colleague suffer.”
He relaxed into the inviting warmth of her aura. “In that case, my dear colleague, I'm honored to accept.”
Chapter 14
IN THE CAR he blanked out for a while. When awareness returned, they were driving across the Severn. Britt said, “Good, you're with me. Feel like talking?”
“I have to,” he said. “There are some things you need to know before we go through with this.”
“I'll second that. My list of questions is a mile long. Some of the things Sandor said, for instance.” She glanced at him before going on hesitantly, “Do your kind sense emotions?”
Amazing, how carefully she must have listened, even with her life in danger. “Yes. That seems to account for the need for human blood. Otherwise animals would do. As it is, they're only good for bulk nourishment.”
“It also explains your success as a therapist,” Britt said. “That and the hypnotic power. You can't imagine how I envy you, colleague. Can you teach me some of those skills?”
“I'm not sure they're transferable, but I'll do my best.” His lips quirked in amusement. “Parapsychology research, colleague?”
“Darn right! And you've held out on me all this time!” she said in mock severity. She turned onto St. Margaret's Road and accelerated to forty. “Hypocrite!—you said you didn't believe in the supernatural.”
“But we're as much a part of nature as you are. Anyway, I suppose even dragons and unicorns, if they existed, wouldn't seem supernatural to themselves.”
She lapsed into thoughtful silence until they turned onto the winding lane where Roger's townhouse was located. “That night Alice Kovak was attacked, you had a date with her.”
His chest tightened. “Yes,” he admitted.
“Preying on patients is radically unethical.”
Trust Britt to view the matter from a skewed angle! She didn't say a word about preying on anyone else. “It doesn't happen often. And I've done them no physical harm.”
Britt pulled into the condominium parking lot and shut off the motor. “Psychological harm?”
“Not that I've noticed. They don't remember, and I don't make a habit of repeating it with the same person. Well—until Alice.”Why am I defending myself? Britt is absolutely right; I have no excuse.
“I still don't like it.” She made no move to get out of the car. “Whatever you do, professionally, reflects on me. I can't condone exploitation of patients in my practice.”
“I'm not arguing the point. I know it was wrong; I did it because I was desperate.”
“Who knows, maybe we can discover an alternative. How often do you need to—?”
“Once every two or three weeks,” he said. “Not quite enough, but I function on it. The fluid volume is small.”
Curiosity danced in her eyes. “How much?”
“Well, I don't measure it!” The spasm of irritation faded. “Sorry, I'm damn near exhausted.”
She hastily handed him the car keys and unbuckled her belt. “Of course you are. I'm the one who should apologize. Let's go in.”
Only the relief that washed over him at being safe behind locked doors told Roger how much anxiety he'd still been repressing. Britt watched in amusement as he secured the chain and both deadbolts. “A touch of paranoia?”
“In my situation, it's a survival trait.” He poured two glasses of sherry and sat with Britt on one of the twin couches that faced each other in front of the fireplace. A single low-wattage lamp cast the only light.
“You drink alcohol,” she said. “Bela Lugosi was off base. Then you won't mind it in my blood?”
Her coolness in discussing the subject amazed him. “Not in moderation. Listen carefully, Britt—I won't do this without a full disclosure of the risks and benefits. I want your informed consent.”
“You sound like a cigarette carton. Fine. Tell me what's hazardous to my health. Anemia?”
“Not from one or two encounters,” he said. “If it's repeated too often at close intervals, that could hardly be avoided. Weakening of the immune system can go along with it, leading to frequent minor illnesses. Proper nutrition can offset the effects of blood loss, and I'm told that with plenty of other nourishment, the vampire needs to take very little from the human partner.” He took a sip of the sherry. The over-sweet taste made him a little queasy.
“Go on,” Britt said. “So it's a matter of quality, not quantity?” He sensed excitement in her, with a trace of nervousness. The fine hairs in his palms quivered in response.
“That's right.” Imagining the “quality” of feasting on Britt's vibrant energy made his jaws ache. “A healthy donor can compensate for the blood loss and energy drain. Other risks are more significant.”
“Such a
s?” She leaned closer to brush her fingertips over his half-healed wound. He shifted away from her touch, unable to repress a visible tremor.
“A long-term donor loses her appetite. Something to do with the mild anesthetic we secrete. But the appetite loss is supposed to be a temporary phase; if one makes the effort to eat well, normal interest in food returns.” He struggled to organize his thoughts, focus on everything she needed to know. The vermilion glow of her aura, pulsing in time with her heartbeat, undermined his concentration. “However, there's a permanent metabolic speed-up. You'd lose weight, though not dangerously. You'd also become abnormally photosensitive.”
“That could account for some of the superstitions about vampires’ victims becoming vampires.”
The quickness of her mind delighted him. “No doubt. But the major negative side effect of our—venom, if you will—is addiction.”
Britt leaned forward again, abandoning her drink on the coffee table. “Really? Does a tolerance develop?”
“No, in that sense it's a fairly benign addiction. No increased dose is required, and the euphoria doesn't diminish over time. In fact, it may get more intense.”
“Interesting.” Her pulse accelerated. Roger didn't dare probe the exact nature of her excitement, whether scientific ardor or something more personal. By now his control was so precarious that he was afraid to touch her.
“The—the vampire also becomes addicted. A powerful psychological dependence. Or so I've been told. The truth is, I only learned about my background a few days ago.”
“Then you've never had that kind of attachment?” Britt said. The question seemed to hold strong interest for her.
“No, I haven't dared return to a single donor—oh, hell, victim—more than twice. Too much risk of discovery.” He felt Britt's pleasure in that answer. Could he hope that she'd offered herself out of some stronger motive than curiosity?
“You mentioned benefits, too,” she prompted.
He watched her take a sip of sherry and thoughtfully lick the corners of her lips. Did she guess how she was torturing him? “Enzymes in our saliva are supposed to guard against cardiovascular problems, cancer—minimize the outward signs of aging—” He could hardly think straight, much less deliver a physiology lecture. “Understand, all this applies only to long-term donors.”
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