Dark Changeling

by Margaret Carter

Britt extended her arms in a catlike stretch. “I don't feel drained—I feel wonderful. I'm really a morning person anyhow.”

  “I've noticed,” he said dryly. Her habit of bounding into the office, obscenely cheerful, at nine a.m. was one of the minor trials of his life. “Truthfully, colleague, I'm not sure I'm—”

  She filled in the gap his hesitation left. “Up for another round? I'll fix that.”

  Wasting no more time in argument, Britt worked over him with her teeth and nails. When all his nerves were humming with the delicious torment of her caresses, she lay on top of him. He felt as if his skin burst into flame at every point where their bodies touched. At the moment of her climax, she offered her throat to his kiss. He needed only a taste to drown in her ecstasy.

  Her panting breath hot on his shoulder, she said, “Roger, that's so—I'm at a loss for words!”

  “You? Then I've accomplished the impossible.”

  She stirred enough to nip his earlobe. “You've done some

  thing, anyway. I almost never have multiple orgasms.”

  So he had managed to give to Britt, as well as taking from her. That knowledge lent a piercing sweetness to his pleasure. “It's a completely new experience for me, too. After last night I realize I've been—starved—for the past twenty years.”

  She kissed him lightly on the cheek. “How do you feel now?”

  “Drunk, with none of the unpleasant side effects. Sleepy. Speaking of which, why did you wake me? Surely not just to indulge our mutual appetite?”

  She sat up and scowled at the clock. “I have to get dressed for work, and I figured you'd want to call Marcia and tell her you won't be in.”

  Roger reluctantly sat up, too. “Why would I do that?”

  “You've had a rough night. You need to sleep it off.”

  “You've had an equally stressful night, and I don't see you planning to stay home.” He walked over to the closet and picked out a suit. “I've never skipped a day for that reason, and I don't plan to start now. Rather like the heavy drinker who claims he's not an alcoholic because he's never missed a day of work.”

  Laughing, Britt headed for the guest bathroom.

  After they'd showered and dressed, and Britt had fueled up with orange juice and Instant Breakfast ("If I'm going to spend nights here regularly, you have to get something to eat in this house,” she admonished him), he drove her to the stadium for the car early enough to give her time to rush home and change clothes before office hours. Just before parting from him, she said, “I'd like you to make me a promise, Roger. No more patients.”

  He felt a flutter of anxiety beneath his diaphragm. “I'd like to assure you that it won't happen again. But I've made that resolution before and failed.”

  “Maybe with my help, you won't fail.”

  What she implied thrilled and yet frightened him. “Britt, serving as my only source of—nourishment—could be dangerous for you.”

  “Let me worry about that.”

  As much as he wanted to evade the issue, he knew he had to speak up before he lost his nerve. “You must understand—I would never force you, physically or mentally. If I make that promise, I'll be placing myself completely in your hands.”

  She gave him a quick, firm hug. “We'll discuss it later.”

  He got to the office long before either Britt or Marcia, of course, and spent the time drinking coffee to wake up and reviewing case files to reroute his train of thought. When Britt arrived half an hour later, he made a point of staying out of her way. He didn't feel ready to handle their new relationship in the work setting. Despite this careful avoidance, her presence seemed to seep through the walls and permeate the very air he breathed. Only when occupied with a patient could he forget what he'd shared with her. Replete and tired as he was, stray wisps of memory still had the power to stir his appetite.

  What's the matter with me? I shouldn't feel acute hunger for nearly a week.He recalled Volnar's longwinded lecture about “addiction.” So the Prime Elder hadn't been exaggerating, after all.Damn, I'm really hooked. In one night, hooked, netted, and trapped. And I love it!

  Fortunately for Roger's equilibrium, these reflections were cut short by the arrival of Alice Kovak. This would be her first session since the attack, whose only outward sign remained a gauze square taped to the side of her neck. Roger's preternatural sight discerned the paleness of her aura, marred by scattered dark blotches. After soothing her into relaxation on the couch, he asked how much she remembered of the assault.

  “Still nothing,” she said. “Except his eyes—like flames. I don't want to remember.”

  “That's understandable,” Roger said from his position near the head of the couch. “But we've discussed before how much worse it is to evade such memories. The unknown, the repressed, is always more frightening than the reality. When you're ready, you will remember what you need to.” In this case, of course, he meant to screen her recollections so that she wouldn't dredge up anything to implicate him.

  “He keeps after me—calling me—” she murmured.

  “Threatening phone calls? Have you reported this to the police?”

  Alice shook her head impatiently. “Not on the phone—inhere .” She tapped her forehead. “I hear him calling inside my brain. I don't remember what he looks like or anything else, but I know it's him.”

  “Alice, how could he do that? Reality test—he isn't super-human.” Except that he was, of course, and her perception could very well be based on fact.If Sandor is trying to lure her into his clutches, it's my fault.

  In an unexpected spasm of energy, Alice sat up and twisted around to clasp his wrist. “I do remember one thing—how you took care of me when I got to your house. You saved my life.”

  He kept his voice even, suppressing the impulse to shake off her touch. “You saved your own life. You should be proud of the courage and presence of mind you displayed.”

  “If you hadn't been there for me—” She didn't let go. “I wish I could pay you back somehow.” She started to put her other arm around Roger's neck.

  His total lack of response surprised him. A few minutes ago he'd been feeling twinges of thirst for Britt.

  For Britt—not for anyone else. This girl leaves me cold.

  He gently unfastened Alice's hands and maneuvered her back to her seat on the couch. “We've talked about this before, too. You don't actually feel a personal attraction to me.” No, she felt an unnatural fascination—the aftereffect of the one time he'd fed on her.

  She huddled sullenly in a corner of the sofa. “Yeah, sure, transference. You have a label for everything, don't you?”

  “Do you resent that?” Drawing her out, he led her through the rest of the fifty minutes. Her insistence that her attacker, the man with glowing eyes, was stalking her, “calling” inside her head, preyed on Roger's mind. He was grateful to usher the girl out of the office at the end of her session.

  In the ten minute break, he flipped the yellow pages to “Florists” and ordered a dozen red roses for Britt.I must be losing my mind, but I'm enjoying it. The gesture was little enough to show his gratitude. No signature; he ordered the card to read simply, “Thank you.” His newfound “addiction” didn't feel like enslavement; rather, Britt had freed him from the whims of his body. Two weeks ago, a casual touch from a female patient would have sent him into an emotional tailspin.

  At lunch he considered taking a forty-five minute nap, as he sometimes did, but decided against it. In his fatigued condition, waking up after that short a time would feel worse than not sleeping at all. About ten minutes into the lunch hour, Britt knocked on his door.

  Chapter 15

  HE WARILY WATCHED her stride over to his desk and sit on the edge of it. “Well, now I know why you stay in every day at noon,” she said. “And to think I worried that you weren't eating properly.”

  “You were right,” he said, “but for a different reason.” After a glance at her, he forced his eyes back to the case file he was annotating. “Any
thing in particular you wanted?”

  “To thank you for the flowers. They made Marcia's day. Now she can needle me about my secret admirer for the next week or two.”

  “You're very welcome. Now, we really should get back to work, shouldn't we?”

  He felt her stiffen at his coolness. She straightened up and backed away a couple of paces. “I was thinking of offering you lunch, but I gather that isn't a good idea.”

  “Here? Certainly not.”

  He didn't realize how harsh he sounded until she stalked to the door. “Britt, wait.”

  She turned to glare at him.

  “Forgive me—I sense every nuance of your emotions so keenly, I forget you can't read mine. I'm trying to keep my distance because if I touched you, I couldn't—” He hated admitting his weakness.

  Britt let go of the doorknob and walked back to the desk. “I see. For a minute I actually thought you regretted last night.”

  “Never that! But this isn't the place.”

  “I have to agree,” she said. “Would you like me to come over again this evening?”

  Heat flooded him. He could hardly restrain himself from leaping up to embrace her. “Yes. And the promise you asked for—you have it.”

  Her eyes gleamed. “You won't regret that. I won't give you time to miss them! Your weekends are going to be fully booked from now on, colleague.”

  Listening to her through the walls a minute later, as she puttered around her office, he caught the sound of humming. Since Britt's musical style was best described as off-key monotone, it took him a while to distinguish the tune. When he did, his weariness melted away.

  She was humming the James Bond theme, “Nobody does it better....”

  * * * *

  AFTER HE'D finished putting away the groceries he'd bought on the way home, Roger showered and dressed, then sat down in the living room with theWall Street Journal to wait for Britt. That diversion kept him occupied less than five minutes. Instead he got up and paced. Britt had promised to come over at six thirty, and he'd never known her to be unpunctual. Since that time was still half an hour away, he had no right to worry yet.

  But he did worry, every second she was out of earshot. The fact last night's pleasure had temporarily wiped out of his mind haunted him: Sandor hadn't minded butchering one of his own kind to strike at Roger. Therefore he would doubtless be thrilled to destroy Britt for the same reason. He knew Britt's importance to Roger, and she had no way to protect herself.

  Good God, why did I ever let her go home alone?

  By the time Britt rang the doorbell, Roger's fear for her had grown to an icy knot in his chest. He practically dragged her inside. Slamming the bolts into place, he said, “Confound it, what took you so long?”

  She looked puzzled by his harsh tone. Holding up her left wrist, she said, “My watch says six thirty. Is yours fast? Roger, what is the matter with you?”

  “I should have followed you home; we shouldn't have separated.”

  A small frown appeared between her eyebrows. “I don't like the sound of that, but we don't have to discuss it standing in the foyer, do we? I'd like to put my things down somewhere.” She carried her briefcase and an overnight bag in addition to her heavy shoulder purse. She had changed out of her tailored pantsuit into slacks and a Johns Hopkins T-shirt.

  Roger carried the overnight case upstairs. Coming back down, he found Britt curled in a corner of the office couch, briefcase on her lap. “You're prepared to stay the night, I see,” he said. A detached part of his mind registered amusement at his awkwardness, as if this situation weren't commonplace for a middle-aged bachelor in this liberated decade.

  “Possibly the weekend,” said Britt, “depending on how soon we get sick of each other. We both like our privacy.”

  “True. At the moment I'm more concerned that I won't want to let you go, not that I'll be eager to throw you out. Staying close to me for too long could be hazardous for you.” He sat down on the other end of the couch, torn between the need to hold her and the fear of repelling her with his voracious demands.

  “Horse hockey,” said Britt cheerfully. “I plan on being here for you every weekend, and more often if you like.”

  “Of course I'd ‘like.’ That isn't the point. I'm used to abstaining for two or three weeks straight, and I get along perfectly well.”

  She greeted that claim with a ladylike snort. “Some snakes go without eating a year at a time, but I doubt they like it. Every weekend, colleague. I intend to take proper care of you, so you might as well resign yourself.”

  “Yes, Doctor.” Maybe he'd learn to restrain himself in the face of her seductive willingness. Perhaps after the first few encounters, her mere presence in the room wouldn't make him lightheaded with desire. And perhaps the entire Delmarva Peninsula would slide into the Chesapeake Bay tomorrow morning.

  “Last night,” she said, “I got some idea of the strain you've been living with. Now I understand what you meant about having trouble working in hospitals. How did you ever get through your residency? The emergency room must have been sheer hell for you.”

  He nodded. “It didn't stop when I became a psych resident, either. I got called down to the ER for consults several times a week.”

  She said with a half-smile, “Traumatic amnesia cases—attempted suicides—little old ladies who can't remember what year it is—paranoid street people punching out paramedics, spitting on interns, and bleeding all over the trauma room floor—oh, yeah,those psych consults.”

  “Yes, I imagine Johns Hopkins and Mass General aren't too different in that respect.”

  “What about your surgical rotation? That must have been even worse.”

  His lips twitched with amusement at the memory of an incident that had been far from funny at the time. “My first day in the OR, I passed out.”

  Britt squeezed his hand. “Oh, boy. How long did it take you to live that down?”

  “Actually, it worked to my advantage in the long run. I had a reputation for being too ‘perfect,’ enjoyed showing up the other residents on rounds. The only reason they tolerated my company was that I was always eager to take other people's night shifts. I overheard one of the nurses, later that day, saying maybe I was human after all.”

  She leaned against his shoulder. “I wish I'd been there.”

  He hugged her lightly, fighting the impulse to pull her into a closer embrace. “No, you don't. Nobody liked me very much. Hell,I didn't like me. I was an arrogant, introverted, anxiety-ridden, self-absorbed workaholic.”

  “Not one bit the way you are now, huh?” she said, deadpan.

  He stared at her blankly for a second, then laughed. “You can't have had too easy a time in training, yourself. Women weren't that common in our specialty back then.”

  Britt shrugged. “Sure, I put up with the usual garbage—anatomical specimens in my locker, groping from the male residents, snide comments from professors who thought I should get married instead of taking up a spot that really belonged to a man. It was all part of the standard ‘be twice as good to be minimally accepted.’ Thank Heaven things are changing.”

  “Did you consider getting married?” He wasn't sure whether he really wanted to know; the thought of another man touching her elevated his blood pressure instantly.

  “I went with another resident during the last couple of years,” she said. “We were never formally engaged, but it was understood. Until he accepted an appointment in the midwest, without consulting me first, on the assumption I'd just drop all my plans and tag along after him.” Britt shook her head. “That killed it. A month later, I couldn't believe I had ever considered spending my life with him.”

  “Shall I hunt him down and kill him for you?” Roger said. In response to her laughter, he added, “On second thought, the idiot did me a favor.” Britt poked him lightly in the chest, a gesture that did nothing to steady his pulse. He put a few inches between them and resolutely shifted the conversation to a neutral topic. “Have you eat
en? I stocked up on supplies for you.”

  “Yes, that's what I went home for, among other things. I've also taken my shower and so forth, so we can spend all evening, uninterrupted, on these reports.” She tapped the briefcase. “Or until the lack of sleep knocks me out, anyway. Since med school I've lost the art of pulling all-nighters.”

  Roger didn't need to be told that she'd just bathed. Her natural fragrance, blood-tinged and combined with a hint of soap and powder, did unfortunate things to his concentration. Unable to resist the temptation, he moved over and put his arm around her shoulders again. “You look beautiful.”

  Britt made a tut-tut sound. “Now you're hallucinating, on top of everything else. In this baggy old shirt, with my hair all over the place? Come on!”

  “I approve of your hairstyle,” he said. “May I?” He drew her into his arms, burying his fingers in the silken mass of her hair, inhaling its clean scent. He soaked up her warmth like desert earth absorbing rain. For the moment he needed nothing more.

  After several minutes she pulled back, her fingers laced behind his head, to meet his eyes. “Colleague, have you considered seeking treatment for this hair fetish of yours?”

  He immediately removed his hands.

  “Idiot, can't you tell when you're being teased?” With a tantalizing scrape of her nails along his cervical vertebrae, she let go of him. “Most men are hair fetishists. But you can't use it to distract me from that rattlebrained remark you made when I walked in. What's this ‘we shouldn't have separated’ stuff?”

  “Every minute you're alone, you are in danger.” Again the weight of anxiety settled on Roger. “Sandor knows I—care for you. Attacking you would be his next logical step.”

  “Are you saying you want to protect me?” He heard no tender gratitude in her voice. Her eyes glinted dangerously.

  “Of course I do, damn it! I put you at risk in the first place! Why do you think I was so determined to keep you away from this case?”

  “If you think I'll stand for that, you're seriously out of touch with reality.” She retreated to her end of the couch, lifting the briefcase onto her lap again. “I chose to get involved, and I bear my own risks.”