Child of Twilight

by Margaret L. Carter

  Inside, blinking in the glare of the harsh overhead lights, she scanned the wall menu and asked for a vanilla milkshake. It was just as well that she didn’t plan to stay and drink it, for the greasy food odors killed her appetite. She retreated to the ladies’ room.

  The pungent disinfectant smell didn’t bother her as much as it normally would have. Fresh water made up for that. After drinking from the faucet, she wasted valuable minutes scrubbing her face and hands. She stared into the mirror, rubbing her cheeks with a paper towel.

  Dark Powers, what a mess! A quick wash couldn’t repair the effects of sleeping on the ground. She needed a bath. Mud stained her jeans, and the baggy jacket, with the cuffs turned up to leave her hands free, didn’t enhance her image. She combed both hands through her tangled mane of short, red curls. Her fingers snagged a dry leaf.

  Who cares what I look like? Time to get moving!

  Emerging from the restroom, she edge to the corner of the wall and peeked in the direction of the counter. The truck driver was paying for his order. Gillian walked rapidly, without quite breaking into a trot, to the door. She held her breath until she’d slipped out.

  Logically the man would have no reason to chase her. He’d planned to leave her in Washington anyway. Still, she ran across the parking lot and kept running for another three blocks. No cars slowed down, and the few pedestrians she passed veered out of her way. She switched to a brisk walk, telling herself she had nothing to worry about.

  Now for the bus station. She’d tackle the problem of the fare after she’d found the place. Perhaps she could beg for the money, since she knew how to make human adults feel sorry for her. She needed a telephone book and a street map. Volnar had introduced her to these basic skills. Too bad he’d waited so long to teach her about dealing with people.

  For half an hour she roamed the streets, not sure what she was looking for. Hunger gnawed at her. A squirrel’s blood volume was too small to satisfy her for long. She almost regretted not waiting for the milkshake. The lights of a Seven-Eleven diverted her from that train of thought. Outside the store she saw a phone booth. She flipped through the yellow pages until she found the address of a downtown bus terminal.

  Stepping inside the store, she made a circuit of the displays, hands in her jacket pockets. If she had some money, she could buy a glass of milk, not to mention one of the city maps on the rack by the checkout counter. Could she get away with stealing one? When she edged up to the counter, she abandoned that idea. The chunky, gray-haired woman running the cash register eyed Gillian with unmasked suspicion.

  Gillian considered snatching a map and running. No, not with two other customers in sight, a slim young black man and a tired-looking blonde in a waitress uniform. Volnar had too thoroughly hammered into Gillian the importance of not attracting attention. An adult of her race could mesmerize the cashier into giving her the map and forgetting about it. Not having learned that skill yet, Gillian was afraid to try; her loss of control with Professor Greer made her frightened of any close contact with human beings.

  “Well?” the saleslady snapped. “Do you want to buy something, or not? Sign says ‘No Loitering,’ and that means you kids.”

  “No, ma’am,” said Gillian. “I only wanted to ask directions. I’m looking for the bus station.” She recited the street address she’d memorized.

  The woman rattled off an impatient sentence of instructions and told her to get out. Gillian thanked her and left.

  Jogging along the sidewalk, a light film of snow crunching under her sneakers, Gillian concentrated on her hope that a bus was scheduled between Washington and Annapolis tonight. She didn’t want to travel by day, nor did she relish the thought of waiting in the terminal all night.

  Her path took her down poorly-lit streets lined by apartment buildings of dingy brick with the stench of garbage drifting from the alleys between them. Many of the ground-floor windows she passed were boarded up. Occasionally a car rumbled by, or footsteps reached her ears from adjoining streets. At one point a cat darted out of her way and paused to hiss at her before fleeing into an alley. Gillian momentarily considered pursuing the animal. She wasn’t used to going hungry—

  When she faced front again, four human figures popped up. They had rounded the corner of a building just ahead. Gillian paused, balanced on the balls of her feet, to brush the edges of their minds. Her fear of losing control made her hesitate long enough to let two of them circle behind her before she sensed their belligerence.

  Four dark-haired boys, probably a few years older than she, wearing jeans, boots, and heavy jackets. The one directly in front of her, two inches taller than Gillian and twice as broad, said, “What’s a little girl like you doing out this time of night?”

  Gillian stared back at him without answering. His breath smelled like onions, but the lust emanating from him sickened her more.

  “Hey, will you look at that!” The youth next to him, shorter and slightly plump, poked at Gillian’s cross. She stepped back, hissing. “Whoa, listen to her!”

  “Sounds like a snake,” the larger boy said. “Built like one, too. Or maybe you’re hiding something under that coat?” He plucked at the zipper of her jacket.

  With a snarl Gillian slashed her claws across his face. He flinched back and whipped out a knife. “You gonna pay for that, bitch! First I’ll take that thing around your neck, and then we’ll see what else you got for us.”

  The other two breathed hot on the back of Gillian’s neck. She understood they intended to rob and rape her. She felt no fear of them—she feared her own anger. The scent of her attacker’s blood made her breathing fast and ragged.

  No—I’m too young for human blood! “Leave me alone,” she said quietly, impaling him with her eyes, fervently wishing she could control him as an adult could.

  For an instant the compulsion seemed to work. The youth inched backward. The boy next to him, though, remained untouched, for she didn’t know how to influence two people at once. The smaller boy tried to snatch the cross from her neck.

  Gillian’s hand grabbed his arm and squeezed until a bone cracked. Startled by the sound, she let go. The leader’s knife swiped at her. The blade slashed the front of her jacket. Dodging just in time to avoid being cut, she felt one of the other boys clutch her from behind.

  That violation ignited her rage. All caution consumed by fury, she lashed out. One hand ripped open the leader’s throat, while her left fist knocked down the second boy who faced her.

  Whirling, she kneed the third boy in the groin, then kicked the last one’s feet out from under him. Spinning around once more, she saw the leader doubled up on the sidewalk, clutching his neck. Blood spurted between the fingers. He stared at her, wide-eyed, gurgling.

  The boy whose face she had bruised tried to struggle into a sitting position. “You—what the hell—”

  Their pain and fear rushed over her like cold fire, setting all her nerves aglow. Involuntary contractions rippled through her muscles. Oh, no, it’s happening again!

  She peeled off the jacket and let it fall. Just in time—the transformation claimed her in an explosion of heat and electricity. Through the red mist over her eyes she saw three of the four muggers lurch to their feet and run away. The one she’d clawed watched her in helpless terror.

  The surge of ecstasy faded quicker this time. Gillian set her jaw and focused on a mental image of herself in the mirror, tired, mussed, and outwardly human. With a wrench, her molecules rearranged themselves.

  Shrugging into her jacket, she bent over the wounded youth. He gasped and fainted. Gillian rummaged through his pockets until she found a wallet. Without counting them, she stuffed all the bills she found into her pocket and tossed the wallet aside.

  Staggering with exhaustion, lightheaded with renewed hunger after exerting that burst of energy, she nevertheless smiled as she loped down the street. She had her bus fare.

  Chapter Two

  ON THE SPARSE grass under the leafless tree, the man
looked asleep, curled up on his left side, one hand under his head. Except that no respectable, middle-class citizen, as his London Fog overcoat marked him, would sleep on the ground at a freeway rest stop in the chill of a December night. Not even in Nevada. Camille left him there. With luck, no one would notice him, lying outside the range of the building’s lights, until she’d covered fifty or a hundred miles.

  She hadn’t bothered getting his name. She had the cash from his wallet and the keys to his car. When he regained consciousness, he wouldn’t remember the woman standing beside an on-ramp next to a “disabled” Mercedes, the tall, attenuated, pale, dark-haired woman he had generously picked up. Nor would he guess why he couldn’t remember, why he felt weak and disoriented with no head injury to explain the symptoms. Camille hoped to cross a couple of state lines before the Nevada highway patrol got their act together to broadcast a description of the mysteriously stolen car.

  Not that she wasted much worry on the police. She could deal with a would-be arresting officer as easily as she had dealt with the rightful owner of this well-kept sedan. Rolling the window down, she bared her teeth to the cold air whipping her in the face and abandoned herself to the roar of the wind and the purr of the engine. These sensory pleasures kept her from brooding over what she did fear and could do nothing about—the danger that those she fled from would catch her before she reached her destination. Abandoning the Mercedes, she hoped, would extend the time before they tracked her down.

  Camille’s fingers tightened on the wheel like a hawk’s talons gripping its prey. Let them find her—she had little chance of eluding them forever. But let her elude them just long enough. For the first time in her life, she wished she believed in prayer. If only she knew some deity that could ensure her freedom until she reached her goal. Her vengeance on Roger Darvell, her brother’s killer.

  “HE’S LYING!” BRITT Loren closed the apartment door with greater than necessary force. “Lying through his expensively-capped teeth.” She pulled off her damp boots, leaving them on the mat by the door, and draped her coat and scarf over the coat tree in the corner.

  With some amusement Roger Darvell noted the frustration she radiated. “Of course he’s lying. We both saw that.” Years of practice under Roger’s direction had bestowed some of his hypnotic skill and empathic perception upon Britt. “But our intuition is not evidence. Why are you letting it upset you so much?” He hung up his own overcoat.

  Britt headed through the living room and dining room, decorated in pale blues and greens, to the kitchen. She didn’t need to ask whether Roger wanted a drink after more than an hour in peak traffic all the way from Clifton T. Perkins State Hospital, near Jessup. The perpetual construction work on the various freeway extensions only exacerbated an already overloaded system. The two of them, as psychiatric consultants, had been interviewing a murder suspect. Britt shook up a dry martini and handed Roger the chilled glass across the counter separating kitchen from dining room. “I can think of better headache remedies,” she said.

  “Not now,” he said. Already the pain induced by sun glaring off the remains of last night’s snowfall was becoming duller.

  Britt poured herself a wine cooler and leaned on the kitchen side of the counter. “The man’s a classic sociopath if I ever saw one. Hallucinations—uncontrollable impulse—horse feathers! He’s been systematically exploiting his stepdaughter, sexually and every other way, for years, and he obviously killed her for the insurance.”

  “Calm down, colleague,” said Roger, smiling at the fire in Britt’s voice. “I agree with you. And Captain Hayes should be delighted, since he and the State’s Attorney want evidence against an insanity plea.” He referred to the county homicide detective who had often recommended one or both of them as expert witnesses.

  Britt gulped half her drink, then shuddered at the rush of icy liquid. “You know as well as I do that the defense will bring in their own experts to contest our findings, and there’s a fifty-fifty chance of the jury believing them, not us. Come on, I know you don’t like it any more than I do.”

  “Granted. But I must be turning cynical—or realistic—with age. I see no point in getting excited about the situation.”

  “Roger, sometimes you’re no fun to gripe at.” With a start, she set down her glass. “Oh, hi, Sigmund.” She bent over to pick up the furry creature whose tail had brushed her leg—her aging blue-point Siamese. Rubbing the cat’s chin, she went on, “Too bad you couldn’t have shelved your scruples and arranged a mysterious death from anemia. The hospital staff would never have noticed a tiny incision on the creep’s neck or arm.”

  Roger stroked the cat’s head. Sigmund responded with a hoarse purr. Roger enjoyed the interaction, for most animals recoiled in fear from him. Sigmund accepted him only because of their long acquaintance. “A very unappetizing notion.” The cat squirmed to get down, emitting the piercing, child-like cry characteristic of the breed. “Starving your pet again, colleague?”

  Britt made a derisive noise. “He knows you’re a pushover. You can feed him while I get changed, but no milk this time. I don’t need a cat with diarrhea.”

  While Britt went into her bedroom, Roger took down a can of cat food and began opening it. Sigmund circled his legs, wailing. Switching to the silent communication made possible by their psychic bond, Roger answered: [Yes, I do feel sorry for him, a natural predator never allowed to set foot outside.]

  [Predator!] Britt mentally chortled. [If he ever saw a mouse, he’d probably faint! Crickets in the summer are about all the challenge he can handle.]

  [Oh, I realize you have to confine him for his own safety. But I still identify with his deprivation.] Roger set down the cat food. Sigmund spared him a cool glance of thanks before digging in.

  Roger took the rest of his martini into the living room. Seated on the couch next to the Christmas tree, he listened to Britt unzipping her pantsuit and rattling hangers in the closet. [What about you?] she asked. [There’s still some of that blutwurst in the refrigerator.] A mental grimace accompanied the words. She often remarked that she didn’t see how Roger could eat the stuff. Well, it wasn’t his favorite meal, but the blood sausage special ordered from a German deli in Baltimore was useful to keep on hand.

  [No, I’ll wait until we get to the restaurant.] He sipped the martini, wishing it could banish the headache that still throbbed faintly at his temples.

  [You could use more than a lukewarm, bloody steak tonight.] Britt started running the shower.

  Roger ignored the hint. Although rare beef wasn’t his first choice either, he reminded himself that he was lucky to be able to eat solid food at all. That ability saved him a lot of inconvenience. [What time did you make the reservation?]

  [Six thirty. Claude and Eloise are expecting us at the Hilton at six, so that gives us a little while to talk before we walk up to the restaurant. I figured the earlier we started the less crowded it would be—better for you and Claude. I wonder what possessed him to invite us out to dinner in the first place?]

  [Something to celebrate, I gather. We’ll find out when he wants to tell us.] Roger’s half-brother Claude had a sometimes annoying flair for the dramatic. Not surprising, considering he was an actor. He and his wife were in the area for a pair of conferences, a science fiction convention in College Park this weekend and the Modern Language Association conference in Washington right after Christmas. The latter concerned only Eloise, in her role as an English professor; Claude would probably spend that time catching up on sleep. In between their various obligations, the couple would share a leisurely visit with Roger and Britt.

  Roger detached himself from Britt’s thoughts, except for the wordless bond that joined them constantly. The bond that sustained him even more than the tangible nourishment she gave him. At his insistence they restricted that communion to weekends. On a Tuesday evening he shouldn’t be tormenting himself by thinking of it.

  Yet how could he avoid thinking of what he craved, when Britt deliberately tempted h
im to break his own rules? He knew that hint she’d dropped had been only the opening salvo in her attack.

  He took the empty martini glass to the kitchen and went into the guest bath to wash up. The cool water felt good. Putting his shirt and tie back on, he checked his appearance in the mirror. He knew his aquiline profile and gray-streaked black hair gave him an air of dignity, which he exploited when dealing with patients. Britt used a less intimidating style, projecting a sort of elder sister persona that induced her patients to open up.

  Studying his reflection, Roger noted that he now looked Britt’s age or a little younger, though she was forty-nine to his fifty-four. His appearance had not changed since the day fourteen years past when he had contracted to become her associate. His failure to age didn’t seem to disturb her. Sooner or later, he knew he would have to make himself look older for his own safety. Fortunately, a man’s cosmetic age was expected to vary less radically than a woman’s.

  When Roger sat on the couch again, leaning back to rest his eyes while waiting for Britt, Sigmund jumped onto his lap. Slowly he stroked the cat, enjoying the ripple of the silken fur. One of the best tranquilizers available.

  A moment later he heard Britt returning and opened his eyes to look at her. She wore an emerald green dress—to match her eyes—with a short jacket. Knee-high boots, more decorative than functional, contrasted with the huge, thoroughly inelegant shoulder purse that she parted with only on the most formal of occasions. She’d restyled her golden-red hair from the tight knot she wore at the office to a softer French twist. “How do I look, colleague?”

  “Perfect, as usual.” He drank in the vibrant pink glow of her aura, a tranquilizer even more effective than a cat’s purr.