Dark Changeling

by Margaret Carter

  Britt said, “You're telling me that, contrary to the movies, a single encounter with a vampire isn't likely to have any lasting effect at all. And a long-term relationship isn't necessarily bad.”

  He nodded. “Is there anything you'd like to ask?” Silly question. “I mean, anything that can't wait?”

  Her tone became more serious. “Sandor made certain comments about you—about your feelings for me. Were his observations accurate?”

  The pulse pounded in Roger's head. He recognized the feeling as sheer irrational panic. Somehow he managed to say, “Yes, completely.”

  Britt slumped back against the couch, relaxing into a broad smile. “Well, thank goodness! I didn't really like the idea of being just a snack—any more than I see you as just a parapsychology experiment. Next question: Where's your shower? I'm a mess.”

  He stood up, dizzy with relief at her open desire for him. Now he recognized part of her excitement as sexual, which solved the quandary that had been buzzing in the back of his mind—whether to complete the act here or invite her upstairs. “Good idea,” he said. “You can use the one in the upstairs hall. I'll meet you in the bedroom whenever you're ready.”

  He carried both their glasses up with him and got out a towel and a terrycloth robe for Britt. On the way he switched on the thermostat; Britt might feel chilly on an October night without central heating. While she was busy, he showered in the bath attached to his bedroom. By the time he'd dressed in shorts and his royal blue lounging robe, doubts nibbled at him again. Could Britt actually feel as much enthusiasm as he had imagined? Had wishful thinking made him misinterpret her emotions?

  And what would she think of the rather garish decor he'd begun to use as a setting for these encounters? He hesitated in the act of spreading an emerald green satin cover on the bed. (Crimson would clash with Britt's hair.) After all, she was far from just one more encounter.

  Stop dithering, Roger! As a demon lover, you rate about a one on a four-point scale. Better take lessons from Claude's movies.

  After a moment's thought, he decided the atmospheric touches might amuse her. He went ahead and lit the mildly scented candles.

  Finally Britt emerged from the guest bathroom. When she halted at the bedroom door, he feasted on the sight of her, with her copper-gold hair tumbling around her shoulders just as he'd fantasized. The terrycloth wrap clung to her lean curves, revealing more than her office wardrobe ever did. The vision made his head spin. Fortunately for his self-control, she broke the spell by bursting into delighted laughter. “Oh, colleague, what is this? Dracula's House of Ill Repute?”

  “It is a bit overdone, isn't it?” he said. “The—atmosphere—is supposed to enhance the emotional component of the—exchange.”

  “Relax, colleague, I love it.” She sat beside him on the edge of the bed, picking up her glass and giving him the other one. “Are you saying you feed on emotions?”

  “Exactly. That's why a conscious, participating donor makes such a great difference.”

  “Don't worry, I fully intend to participate. Only you'll have to give me some hints; I've never done this before.”

  Her flippant tone eased some of his nervousness. “This is a first for me, too. I've never—taken—from anyone who knew what I was. I've always had to put them into a trance, or at least blur their memories afterward.”

  She placed her free hand gently on his. “The isolation must be—difficult.” The sympathy that emanated from her warmed the very marrow of his bones. She drained her drink and said more lightly, “Don't you dare even think about fogging my memory. I plan to concentrate on every detail. Come on, finish your sherry. Maybe it'll reduce some of your inhibitions.”

  He set the glass on the nightstand. “No, my threshold for alcohol is higher than yours—” He trailed off as she stared at him in mock fascination. “The hell with this! If you want uninhibited, you'll damn well get it! I'm ravenous—and I want you desperately!”

  Her eyes widened in shock when he pushed her down on the pillow. He dove for her throat. His teeth barely touched the tender skin; just in time, Britt's muffled gasp brought him to his senses.

  He drew back with an effort that left him shaking.

  Wrapping her arms around his neck, she said, “It's all right, you just startled me. Don't stop.”

  Humbled by her fearless offering, Roger forced himself to lick the smooth curve of her neck with his customary gentleness. He kissed the thin scratch, then moved a few centimeters over to taste unmarred skin. With his upper body pinning hers beneath him, he felt the hammering of her heart, the expansion and contraction of her lungs. Britt's excitement built more rapidly than he'd expected. Within a minute or two her passion had so inflamed his that he couldn't hold back. He nipped her flesh and lapped the trickle of blood in a slow, caressing rhythm.

  The ecstasy drowned all discrete perceptions in a single delirious rush. Vaguely he noticed Britt clutching his shoulders, writhing, arching her back. He shifted position to cover her body completely with his, giving her the contact she demanded. He almost blacked out when the explosion of her climax hit him.

  She clung to him, trembling, until her passion exhausted itself. Immediately Roger broke contact, though his body screamed for more. If he didn't stop now, he feared he might go on drinking forever.

  He lay on his back, Britt's head pillowed on his left arm. Applying direct pressure to stop the scant flow of blood, he said, “I apologize—I don't usually behave that—precipitously. You hurried me, with your infernal teasing.”

  “The hell I did!” With a lazy smile she rubbed her head against his shoulder. “Oh, colleague, don't look so distressed. I'll think you didn't like it.”

  He hugged her close. “But I wanted to give you the kind of experience you must have anticipated. I didn't mean to rush.”

  “Well, the night isn't over yet. Anyway, I have no complaints.” She slipped her hand inside his robe to rub his chest. “Is it my imagination that your skin is measurably cooler than mine?”

  Good grief, she'd probably go on making scientific observations at the foot of the guillotine! “No, that's accurate. My normal body temperature is around ninety.”

  “And you aren't perspiring.” Britt was; he wanted to lick the salt from her damp forehead but didn't trust himself to stop there.

  “We have a more efficient temperature control mechanism than you. It takes a lot more exertion than this to make me sweat visibly. It evaporates so rapidly you don't notice it.”

  After a few minutes’ silence, during which Britt tickled his chest hair in a tantalizing way that he didn't have the will to make her stop, she said, “You surprised me. Oh, I don't mean when you swooped down on me that way. I mean I didn't expect it to be so—sexual.”

  “Our libido is less—diffuse—than yours. Everything focuses on the taking of blood.”

  “An entire species with an oral fixation! How Freudian!” She added more seriously, “What about conventional sexual intercourse?”

  Roger's chest tightened. He couldn't start lying to her now. “I'm incapable of it. Vampires breed very seldom, and I'm nonhuman in that respect.” Would she withdraw because he couldn't satisfy her?

  Britt, however, showed no sign of disappointment. “Then taking blood is like an orgasm for you?”

  “Itis an orgasm, indescribably more intense than the standard model. I share your climax and amplify it—my satisfaction depends on yours.”

  “Interesting. I've been wondering since the day we met how you'd be in bed, but I never imagined it like this.” Her open hand skimmed up and down his chest like stroking a cat. He wished he knew how to purr.

  “Youwhat ? Why on earth didn't you—assert yourself—sooner? You're supposed to be a hard-line feminist.”

  She dissolved into a fit of laughter. Recovering, she said, “How could I make advances, the way you advertise your fear of intimacy? It was hard enough getting you to go out to lunch once in a while. Besides, if you can read emotions, why didn't
you pick up on my interest and save us all this trouble?”

  “I've gone to great lengths to keep from getting close to you—avoided touching, barriered myself against your emotions. I—desired you too much to stand that kind of temptation.” Confessing his feelings to Britt wasn't as hard as he'd expected. “That accounts for my occasional discourtesy toward you.”

  “Occasional! Roger, I love your gift of understatement.” Her nails grazed his chest. “You know what turned me on about you first?”

  He surprised himself by attempting a joke. “If it wasn't my irresistible vampire magnetism, I have no idea.”

  “It was the ‘Haavuhd’ accent. Gives me chills—I could listen to you talk for hours.”

  “From my viewpoint,” he said dryly, “you have the accent.”

  “It's pure Baltimore, hon,” she said in an exaggerated drawl.

  “That's one piece of culture shock I had to adjust to when I moved here—supermarket clerks I'd never met before calling me ‘hon.'”

  She raised her head and looked at him quizzically for a second, before snuggling into the curve of his arm again. “You shop at the grocery store?” She answered herself, “Silly me, of course you must. Aside from all the non-food supplies, I've seen you drink milk. Not to mention those vanilla diet shakes at lunchtime. I always wondered why; you sure don't need to lose weight.” She ran a hand over the taut muscles that covered his ribs.

  “As you've noticed, I can't eat most solid foods. Never have been able to.”

  “Did you drink blood all your life? I can't imagine how your adopted parents would've dealt with that.”

  “Good grief, no.” The things they had been required to deal with were bad enough. “It started during my internship. I began having dreams of blood. Tried to analyze them out of existence by myself—not exactly something I wanted to mention to the hospital staff, when I was trying to get into a psych residency. I'd wake up with erections, but I'd lost the ability to—ah—relieve the pressure—” To his dismay, he blushed. “I tried to convince myself the craving was not what it was. I became quite adept at self-deception.”

  “I bet you did,” said Britt. “When did you finally figure out what you needed?”

  “Well, it came to a head during my training therapy.” He narrated the same experience he'd told to Volnar the previous week.

  “You fed on your training therapist? Oh, Roger!” She burst into helpless giggles. When she recovered, she said, “By the way, why are you lying here half dressed?”

  “For one thing, I can't move while you're immobilizing my arm.”

  Britt sat up and untied her wrap. “Well, I'd like to look at you, please. You can look, too, if you want.” She leaned over to hang the robe on the bedpost.

  Roger was pleased that her professional neatness carried over into her personal habits, but at the moment he was captivated by her bold sensuality. Her nakedness gave him the incentive to remove his robe and shorts. He'd never had any reason to share that intimacy with a donor before. To his distress, he reddened under Britt's direct gaze.

  “Maybe you aren't interested in looking?” she said.

  “Where did you get that idea? Just because the visual stimulus isn't primary doesn't mean it has no effect.” Her full, firm breasts, flat abdomen, and long legs embodied the perfection he'd always imagined her to possess.

  She knelt beside him on the bed. “Sit back and relax; I want to get a hands-on sense of our differences.” He humored her, plumping a pillow behind him and leaning against the headboard. Britt's fingers encircled his wrist, while her other hand explored his jawline.

  “If you're counting my pulse,” he said, “you won't get an accurate reading. Contact with you distorts the results.”

  “Why, colleague, is that a compliment?” He stiffened as her fingertips played at the corners of his mouth. “Don't be so tense, Roger. Won't you let me examine your teeth?” He obligingly bared them for her. “No fangs.”

  “Not necessary. The incisors and canines are razor-edged.” She ran her index finger along the front teeth, hazardously close to that cutting edge. He flinched. “Don't—I might—”

  Her hand moved to his shoulder. “It's all right, I trust you.”

  “If I accidentally drew blood, I wouldn't be able to stop. You—tempt me—too much.”

  “Trust yourself, colleague,” she said earnestly, her eyes holding his. “I know you'd never hurt me.” She let go of his wrist to trace the inverted triangle of hair on his chest, down to where it tapered to a point at his navel. “Unusual pattern of hair growth. And it's like silk—mmm.”

  He tensed again when she fondled his genitals. He reminded himself that she wouldn't find anything shocking or abnormal; his anatomy was human there, even if his responses weren't, quite. “Interesting,” she murmured. “But you said you didn't—”

  “The fact that I don't focus on genital sexuality,” he said, struggling to keep his voice steady, “doesn't mean I feel no sensation there. Thirst makes my entire body sensitive. A network of capillaries doesn't recognize fine discriminations.” He guided Britt's free hand to his chest, letting her skim over the taut nipples.

  Hers, too, were fully erect. Her aura showed darker pools of heat at breasts and groin. The intoxicating scent of her arousal made him lightheaded. In her warm handclasp he felt himself hardening. “You're still—thirsty?” she said. He nodded, not trusting his voice.

  He captured her caressing hand, hoping for a distraction from his mounting excitement. A mistake—with the ball of her thumb she sketched spirals on his palm. “Little hairs,” she said delightedly, “just like in the legends. What are they for?”

  “They register heat, electricity, magnetism, air pressure—something like a cat's whiskers.” Objective discussion had lost the ability to cool his ardor, continuously fueled by her seductive touch.

  “If they're so sensitive,” she said, “how can you stand to grasp objects?”

  “It only reacts to light touch. Firm pressure overwhelms the nerve endings and has no effect.” Unlike her relentless tickling.

  “Fascinating.” She bent over to flick her tongue across his palm.

  “Britt, I wish you wouldn't do that.”

  “Why? Don't you like it?”

  “Too much,” he groaned.

  “I'd like to kiss you,” Britt said matter-of-factly. “May I?”

  In answer, he tangled one hand in the luxuriant hair at the nape of her neck, pulling her close. When her lips touched his, though, he allowed the kiss without returning it.

  The disappointment in Britt's eyes almost shattered his self-control. “Come on, colleague, I'm sure you can do better than that!”

  “I can,” he said. “But it might provoke me into—renewing my demands.” His teeth were tingling; the cilia in his palms bristled with the need to touch her heat and softness.

  “Good,” Britt said. “I want to find out what it's like when you aren't hurried.” Again she pressed her mouth to his. The invasion of her tongue shattered the last of his resistance. Gathering her into his arms, he drew her down beside him.

  “Britt, are you sure?”

  “Hard to convince, aren't you?” She lightly bit his shoulder. “Yes, I'm sure I want to make love with you.”

  He buried his face in her hair, astonished at the sudden tears that stung his eyes. “Is that what you call it?”

  “What do you call it?” she said.

  “Nothing, usually. I try to think of it as little as possible.”

  Britt pulled back to stare into his eyes. “I hope that will change from now on.”

  He kissed her again, feasting on her passion. In leisurely exploration, his lips wandered over her neck, shoulders, and breasts, while she retaliated by nibbling everywhere she could reach. Her mouth and hands set him on fire. His heartbeat raced in sync with hers. This time he lavished on her the attention she deserved, and neither of them had any complaints.

  * * * *

  AT FIVE A.M. Roger gl
anced up from the journal he was reading to drink in the sight of Britt stretched out asleep on his bed. She'd resisted her fatigue as long as possible, eager to question him. They'd talked for hours, until he had finally persuaded her to rest, around one. Since then he'd been relaxing in an armchair across the room, simultaneously watching her and reading.

  A ripple of the sheet drew his eyes. Britt rolled over and looked at him. “Aren't you sleepy? Come lie down.”

  The invitation reminded him of how exhausted he really was. And now dawn was near enough to let him sleep. He lay next to Britt, and she curled up with her head on his chest. Another first—he'd never shared a bed with anyone before. Enfolded in the warmth of Britt's aura, he sank into the welcoming darkness almost at once.

  A subjective instant later, he woke with Britt's voice ringing in his head: “Roger, wake up!”

  Her anxiety shrilled in his ears and sent his pulse rate soaring. He snapped fully awake. Britt was bending over him.

  “Take it easy, colleague,” she said. Noticing that he was squeezing her wrists painfully hard, he let go.

  “Sorry. What's wrong?”

  She looked embarrassed. “Nothing, I guess. I couldn't find any vital signs—you scared me.”

  “Iscaredyou ?” His adrenaline jolt was ebbing now. “You nearly shocked me into cardiac arrest, waking me that way. Didn't I explain that for vampires deep sleep is actually suspended animation?”

  “Being told and witnessing it are two different things.” Kneeling on the bed, she let her unbound hair sweep across his chest. “Let me make it up to you.”

  “I've drained too much energy from you already.” Besides, sated to the point of intoxication, he wanted most to go back to sleep. A glance at the bedside clock told him that wasn't an option.