Night Flight

by Margaret Carter

  Ripples of pleasure spread over her bare skin, sensitized by the torrent of hot water from the shower. Though she knew she couldn't satisfy her own craving—she needed the blood and passion of a human donor for that—she couldn't resist nestling a hand between her thighs. The hidden bud swelled and throbbed. Normally she felt sensations there only when she fed, and only as a small part of the whole-body rush. Now she felt compelled to stroke that spot.

  The frisson that arced along her nerves surprised her. Again she had to face the fear that Volnar might be right about her—premature development. She rubbed harder and faster, but no relief came. Gritting her teeth, she teased herself until her veins felt on fire, her stomach cramping and jaws aching. Finally, her throat dry with frustration, she turned the shower to full cold and stood under it until the hunger faded, banishing Paul's image whenever it floated to the surface of her mind.

  I've been mooning over him like a lovesick heroine in one of Juliette's romances! Her mother, Professor Julia Frost in the English department at the College of William and Mary, also wrote historical romances under the name "Juliette Fontaine." Reviewers praise the authenticity of the author's mid-Victorian settings, never guessing, of course, that she'd lived through that era. Gillian had always read her mother's novels as a source of humor. Strictly for ephemerals, who made an endless fuss over their mating rituals. Now she'd started acting like one of them.

  * * * * *

  Wearing a light summer dress and a wide-brimmed straw hat with polarized sunglasses, her arms and face coated with factor 30 sunscreen, Gillian headed west on the freeway to Paul's ranch-style faux adobe house in La Jolla.

  Beside her in the front seat lay a portfolio of recent photographs, sample illustrations for their latest book proposal. Paul augmented his income as a zoology professor at the University of California, San Diego, by writing wildlife picture books for children. Gillian supplied the photos.

  As a team, she and Paul specialized in California's nocturnal fauna. They'd worked up a plan for a new series, stories instead of straight nature reportage. The first book, if the publisher they'd approached offered a contract, would be Chico the Coyote.

  By the time Gillian reached Paul's home, driving straight into the setting sun most of the way, she had a pounding headache. The anticipation of seeing him made it worthwhile, though. He opened the door almost a soon as her finger touched the buzzer. She heard his heartbeat stutter when their eyes met. With that mutual attraction, seducing him would be fatally easy.

  She pushed the thought into a corner of her mind, but not without pausing to savor his fragrance, soap and shampoo spiced with the warmth of his flesh. She noticed that his golden-red hair still curled damply from the shower.

  "Gillian, hi! Got the pictures?—great, come right in." With a light grip on her wrist, Paul led her into the combination living room-dining alcove. Aware of her sensitivity to the sun, he'd left the curtains almost completely shut. When she removed her sunglasses, the pastel blues and greens of the decor soothed her eyes.

  She immediately caught sight of a bottle and two glasses on the coffee table, which was carved from a tree stump and varnished to a deep chestnut gloss. "What's this, something I should know?" she said as she plopped her portfolio, hat, and purse on the couch.

  Paul's smile widened. He handed her an e-mail printout. "I was planning to make a big production of it, but why wait? Here—message from Jan this afternoon."

  Their agent. Gillian scanned the sheet of paper. The publisher had offered a contract for the picture book series. She had to read the amount of the advance twice. Though she could have all the money she ever needed from Volnar for the asking, she preferred the independence of earning her own.

  "Yes! Of course I had a feeling they wouldn't turn us down, but—Paul, this is great!"

  "Caldecott Medal, here we come!" He threw his arms around her in a bear hug. His heart pounded against her breast, his rapid breath ruffling her hair. Almost involuntarily she returned the hug. For a second her cheek rested against his. By tilting her head at a slightly different angle, she could press her lips to the side of his neck—

  She eased out of his arms. Paul avoided her eyes like a flustered teenager. He bent over the champagne bottle, clumsily picking at the foil cap. Grateful for the distraction, Gillian sat down on the couch and picked up one of the empty glasses. While he opened the bottle, her eyes wandered to the terrarium in the corner where his pet boa constrictor coiled in its usual torpid condition.

  A tempting fantasy flitted through her mind. Could a man who liked snakes accept the truth about a human-shaped predator who fed on blood? She smiled to herself at the idea. Surely she wouldn't seriously think of revealing her true nature to Paul? Ephemerals receptive to the companionship of vampires were far more than vampires themselves.

  The pop of the cork interrupted her reverie. After filling their glasses, Paul toasted their future success. Sipping, she gazed into his eyes and fantasized about the flavor of his essence instead of the tart fizz of champagne. I have to stop thinking this way!

  He lounged beside her on the sofa, refilling both goblets. "Come on, I want to see your latest masterpieces."

  Grateful for the diversion into a professional mood, she took the photos out of the portfolio. Paul fanned them on the coffee table. Scanning Gillian's candid shots of coyotes, raccoons, chipmunks, jackrabbits, and pocket mice ignited an appreciative glow in his aura that warmed her almost as much as his leashed desire for her. "Your night photography never ceases to amaze me. These belong in National Geographic."

  "Someday," she said, not altogether kidding.

  "How do you get so close without spooking them? Raccoons, okay, you practically have to fire a shotgun to scare them away, but these others—"

  Gillian shrugged. She couldn't very well explain how she used vampiric influence to lull the creatures into submission or, alternatively, cast a psychic veil to make herself "invisible" to them. "Just a knack, I guess."

  "These raccoons look like you posed them that way."

  She said nothing, since she couldn't admit she had done just that.

  "Maybe we should use them for the next book. They're familiar animals, so kids should enjoy reading about them, plus we could use the story to educate them not to try petting or feeding weed species."

  Gillian laughed. "I hope you don't plan to call them that in the book! Kind of undermines the cuteness factor."

  They finished off the bottle while discussing possible raccoon-centered plots. Though their agent had persuaded the publisher to sign a multibook contract, the exact number of books remained to be decided. Paul suggested they should have several proposals ready to demonstrate their ability to follow through on a long-range series.

  "How about bats?" After a moment's thought, he said with a self-deprecating laugh, "Don't know if I'd want you crawling through caves full of guano, not to mention taking chances with rabies."

  "Bats wouldn't bite me," she said absentmindedly, provoking a quizzical glance from Paul.

  "How about staying for dinner to celebrate?" He held up a hand when she started to protest. "Yeah, I haven't forgotten your allergies. I got a couple of things you can eat, and the rest of the time you can just talk to me."

  Gillian had refused every previous invitation, partly because the "allergy" excuse would stretch only so far, but partly to keep a cautious distance from Paul. If she accepted this invitation, she'd set a hazardous precedent. Yet she couldn't bring herself to refuse this time.

  He took her silence for acceptance. "Great, I'll just put my steak under the broiler."

  After she'd watched him start dinner, he said, "Time to feed Naga. Want to help?"

  "Sure."

  While he fetched a white rat in a small cage from his home office, she lifted the glass top off the terrarium. The snake languidly raised its head to stare at her. "You know," said Paul, dangling the rat by its tail, "you're the only woman I've ever had over here who'd watch this, much less
do it, without screaming or gagging."

  How many women has he invited over? she thought. The pang of—could it be jealousy?—astonished her. "That's silly. It's part of nature."

  "Red in tooth and claw," he misquoted. "Most people don't like to confront that fact too closely." He dropped the rat. The snake's coils whipped around the rodent and squeezed. A minute later, the fanged jaws unhinged and engulfed the victim. Paul and Gillian watched while the rat disappeared into the snake's mouth in spasmodic jerks, tail last, and became a lump in its gullet.

  While Gillian replaced the lid, Paul returned the cage to the other room. The sight of the reptile devouring its prey roused her own appetite. Ridiculous, I shouldn't be hungry at all tonight. Maybe the anomaly had something to do with her approaching estrus. She pushed that thought aside; she wanted to forget the problem for a few hours.

  Paul dined on steak, baked potato, and salad—with garlic-free dressing, in consideration for her "allergies." He shared a first course of beef broth with her, and she drank milk in addition to a glass of the burgundy he opened. She knew he tactfully restricted her wine intake because she had to drive home. She couldn't explain that her inhuman tolerance made the precaution unnecessary. With the scent of his rare steak tantalizing her, she wished the alcohol could dull her senses.

  "There's something I want to ask you," he said as they moved from table to couch with after-dinner shot glasses of sherry. The rose-pink of his aura dimmed and flickered, reflecting his nervousness. She noticed how he sat closer to her than usual. When he put down his glass and touched her hand, not quite clasping it, his heartbeat accelerated. "You must know I'm interested in you, as more than a collaborator."

  She nodded. The near-formality of the statement intrigued her. Most of the human males who'd tried to seduce her in the past, allured by her innate vampire magnetism, had used much more blunt language. Or else they'd bypassed words altogether. Paul, in comparison, acted like a knight from King Arthur's court.

  "I don't want to push you into something you're not ready for, but I don't want to wait forever, either. So—" He shook his head with a rueful smile. "Good Lord, listen to me babble. The hell with the prepared speech. Would you like to spend this weekend with me in my cabin at Big Bear?"

  She stared at him. This wasn't quite the approach she'd expected.

  Apparently taking her stunned expression for reluctance, he said, "It can be just companionship, if that's all you want. Just take it a step at a time. How about it?"

  Gillian shook her head. Even if it weren't dangerous to get too close to an ephemeral she actually liked—the risk of addiction was too high—spending a whole weekend with him, day and night, held the potential for disaster. Not to mention that he would see her failing to eat enough to keep an anorexic twelve-year-old alive, he might catch a glimpse of her asleep. Her daytime dormancy looked enough like death to scare him witless and destroy any illusion that she was a normal woman.

  He emitted disappointment like radio static. "Can you tell me why? Is it that you could never feel that way about me, or is this just not the right time?"

  "I can't explain it, Paul. I do like you, but—intimacy—wouldn't work." His unwavering look told her that he wouldn't accept this non-explanation. She gazed back at him and snared his eyes with her hypnotic power. "Don't worry about it. We can stay friends, just as we've always been. You don't need to know my reasons. You trust me."

  He stared unblinkingly into her eyes. "Right. I trust you. I don't need to hear your reasons."

  She felt a needle-prick of guilt. How silly most of her kind would think she was being. Ephemerals existed as prey, tools, or at most pets. Superior beings had no obligation to them. But I'm part human, and Paul is my friend. Her half-human father, at least, would say she was right to feel guilty.

  Well, it couldn't be helped. She had to squelch Paul's curiosity if she wanted to keep working with him.

  While ruminating over the problem, she unconsciously kept her eyes fixed on his. He leaned toward her, as helpless as the rat swallowed by the snake. His aura glowed a deeper red as excitement replaced his disappointment. His hand, still holding hers, squeezed tighter, and he traced circles in her palm with his thumb.

  Her pulse speeded up to match his. I'll let him go soon; just let me enjoy this for a minute or two. Even while her brain made that sensible resolution, her body inched closer, and her lips drifted toward his neck.

  His mouth intercepted hers. Though entranced by her psychic power, he hadn't lost his erotic skills. He teased her lips apart. Her tongue flickered to meet his. The moist heat of his mouth made the roots of her teeth burn. Strangely, a similar heat welled between her thighs.

  She ran her fingernails down the nape of his neck. When he shivered in response, her own body echoed the reaction. She had never kissed a man before—lip contact was irrelevant to feeding—and the effect on her appetite astonished her.

  Just once. What can it hurt? He won't remember a thing. She licked and nibbled her way down the side of his jaw. His breathing roughened, while one of his hands massaged her back in languid circles, and the other fondled her breasts.

  When she pierced his skin, he let out a sharp gasp that mirrored the spike of arousal her bite evoked. One caress from her fingers, she knew, would trigger his release. But that didn't seem right, not in a hypnotically-induced daze.

  She sipped from the tiny wound until the hot, tangy taste had fully appeased her hunger. Intoxicated with the half-awake sensuality he projected, she almost wished she could let him remember, maybe wake him and let him enjoy the climax he craved.

  No, the very idea was insane. Stroking his hair and forehead until he sank into light sleep, she whispered, "I have to leave now, Paul. You won't remember any of this." A reckless impulse seized her. "Except the kiss. Remember the kiss. After that, we said goodbye, and I left. Understand?"

  He slowly nodded, his eyes closed.

  "After I left, you crashed on the couch. In a little while you'll wake up and remember just what I told you. Okay?"

  "Yeah," he murmured.

  "Tonight when you go to sleep, you'll dream about me, and it'll be totally—fulfilling." If caution wouldn't allow her to have a real-life relationship with him, they could at least share it in fantasy.

  Chapter Four

  When Paul woke up, he found himself lying on the couch, alone. Where the heck was Gillian? Oh, yeah, they’d kissed, and then she’d gone home. What was the matter with him, letting her escape so easily? Though she’d turned down his invitation, that kiss had been too hot to let him believe her “just friends” line.

  At least, what little he remembered of it was hot. His groin tightened at the mere thought of her mouth on his. Why was the memory such a blur? He stood up and his head spun.

  What’s going on ? I didn’t drink that much!

  He stumbled down the hall, leaning on walls for balance. He couldn’t believe he’d passed out on the couch without even walking her to the door. Real smooth. He’d finally had Gillian in a position to do something more intimate than discussing their books, and he’d blown it.

  Lots of men might not be turned on by a tall woman with a greyhound-slender body. Their loss. He loved to watch her perky little breasts under clinging T-shirts, and for months he’d fantasized about having her long legs wrapped around him.

  Cold water on his face didn’t clear the mist from his head. He staggered from bathroom to bedroom. Groaning, he shucked his clothes and crashed on the bed. Maybe I’m coming down with something? The fog thickened in his brain and he drifted off.

  Fire and ice spread over him, painlessly searing every inch of skin. He opened his eyes to meet Gillian’s, gleaming silver with radiance like a cat’s. Her lips teased his. When he opened his mouth, her tongue flickered like a flame. Hugging her naked body to his, he felt her peaked nipples against his chest. Her mouth moved downward to brand his neck like a red-hot coal. Pressed against her satiny flesh, his erection grew painfully hard. She arch
ed her back and drew him in. Her moist head squeezed him in a n accelerating rhythm that drover the pressure to unbearable intensity. His rod felt a foot long. He plunged into her and shot off with a roar of mingled ecstasy and anguish.

  He woke alone, drained. Oh, man, what a dream! Only a wet patch on the sheet gave evidence that one aspect of the dream had really happened. He felt spent but not satisfied. He craved Gillian in real life, not only in dreams. And he realized he wanted her for much more than a night or even a weekend. Maybe forever.

  Chapter Five

  Gillian arrived home with her head spinning. She’d done everything she had continually promised herself not to do. Encouraging Paul to expect anything beyond friendship was the worse kind of folly.

  Over and over, Volnar and every other adult vampire she knew had cautioned against preying on people she worked with. Constant association with a donor would make it too easy to slip up and let the ephemeral suspect her nonhuman nature. The more often she had to mesmerize a human companion into forgetting little anomalies in her behavior, the greater the hazard that the mental control would come unstuck.

  At least, she thought, I still had the sense to turn down that weekend invitation. On top of Volnar’s revelation the previous night, this evening’s indulgence with Paul left her dizzy with confusion. Mate with Luciano? Not until California slid into the ocean, and maybe not even then. Now, if Luciano were anything like Paul—

  Have you lost your mind, girl? He’s an ephemeral. A food source—or at most a pet.

  She needed advise, and not from her official adviser. Volnar had already made his position clear. Her half-human father, Roger Darvell, a psychiatrist in Maryland, would understand her predicament. Ordinarily a male vampire had no role in his offspring’s life beyond the genetic one, but as hybrids, Roger and Gillian didn’t conform to the standard rules. While growing up, she had spent several weeks each year with him.