Child of Twilight

by Margaret L. Carter

  ALL AFTERNOON ROGER had struggled to ignore his uneasiness about leaving Gillian alone. Surely she had sense enough not to venture out, and what harm could she do inside the house? He declined to speculate on what a bored young vampire might concoct to amuse herself in new surroundings. Aware that children Gillian’s age needed more food and less sleep than adults, he had little hope that she would remain quiescent until dusk. He decided against phoning at mid-afternoon to check on her. On the remote chance that she was still asleep, there was no point in disturbing her.

  As soon as he opened the door of his townhouse, he sensed Gillian’s fear. Already, noting the unlatched deadbolt, he was alert for trouble. Mentally ordering Britt to stand clear, he swooped down on the intruder.

  The man’s suppressed excitement spiked into fear. Roger didn’t feel in the least guilty for enjoying that response. “I—I’m just returning the backpack your daughter left in my van. My name’s Adam Greer.” He made an unobtrusive and futile effort to ease out of Roger’s grip.

  Roger scanned his captive—a thin, middle-aged man with sparse gray-brown hair and a pointed beard. “You were threatening Gillian. Why?”

  “Not threatening, I wouldn’t think of it! Look, I’m a sociologist at William and Mary—” He worked his right hand into a side pocket and pulled out his wallet. Handicapped by Roger’s hold on his shoulders, he fumbled out a calling card. “I specialize in contemporary legends and strange phenomena. I’d simply like to interview your daughter. She has some remarkable abilities.” He conjured up a feeble smile, which Roger sensed was meant to convey flattery.

  “That’s out of the question,” said Roger. He accepted the card but kept one hand on the professor. “You’ve committed an unpardonable invasion of privacy.”

  “I can understand why you wouldn’t want a girl her age giving interviews. If I could talk to you for an hour or so, instead—”

  Roger cut him off. “You’re wasting time. You are to leave here, never contact us again, and don’t pursue this matter any further. Understand?” He felt the man’s resistance wilt under his steady gaze. Unwillingly he acknowledged the rush of pleasure the small conquest gave him. He could see how, for some of his kind, this pleasure could become addictive, even eclipsing the satisfaction of more subtle forms of communion.

  Greer nodded. Roger propelled him out the door. When he was sure the man was heading for his car, Roger locked the door and turned to Gillian. She stood rigidly erect, eying him as if expecting him to lash out at her.

  He was tempted to do just that. Instead he kept his voice low. “How did Greer find you? Surely you didn’t give him my name.”

  “No, sir. But I did give him the address. When he offered to drive me here.”

  Damn it, hadn’t Volnar taught her never to volunteer any information? “Why did you let him in?”

  “I did want the backpack, sir, and I thought once he was inside, I could—manage him.”

  Roger became aware of another kind of tension underlying her fear. “I think I see. You wanted to experiment on him, didn’t you? You thought you could control him.”

  Gillian nodded, her mouth set in a tight line.

  Britt stepped out from the corner where she’d retreated when Roger charged at Greer. “Are you going to try her for high crimes and misdemeanors right here in the entryway? Can’t we go sit down first?”

  Her voice defused Roger’s impatience. “Of course, colleague. No real harm was done, I suppose.” He gave Gillian an awkward pat on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, he isn’t likely to be back.”

  “Will he obey you? I tried to make him leave, but I wasn’t—strong enough.” They went into the living room, where she settled in lotus position on one of the couches. Britt, meanwhile, went upstairs to change out of her office clothes. “I tried to tell him to forget about me,” said Gillian. “It didn’t work. Why didn’t you do that?”

  Roger sat opposite her and removed his sunglasses. As usual sunlight on the snow had given him a headache. “Too risky. Such extensive memory alteration is apt to backfire. The most I hope for is that he’ll accept my suggestion to lose interest in you. Eventually, as the vividness of the memory wanes, he may come to believe he imagined most of what he saw.”

  “I hope so,” Gillian said. “I apologize for my carelessness.”

  Her chastened tone evoked Roger’s pity. “We don’t have to discuss it right now. You may as well save the details for when Claude gets here. He’ll want to hear about it, I’m sure. What have you been doing today?”

  Apparently used to this kind of question, she answered in a brisk tone, “I awoke at one forty-seven p.m. and searched for food. I drank a cup of milk and the juices from a half-pound of calves’ liver. You know, sir, cold liver is mondo boring.”

  “Where on earth did you pick up that expression?”

  Britt’s laughter preceded her into the room. “I think I can guess that,” she said. “So, Gillian, what did you do after your boring snack?” She sat next to Roger, leaning against him as if they were alone. He still felt self-conscious about showing affection in front of the child but couldn’t deny himself the soothing effect of Britt’s touch.

  Gillian continued, “I watched Brad and Lila throw objects at each other on Tomorrow Is Another Day. She accidentally rendered him unconscious with a serving platter. They are fighting because—”

  “Never mind, I don’t need a synopsis. I realize you have to learn about human culture in some non-hazardous way, but I do question Volnar’s judgment in prescribing soap operas for the purpose.”

  “He always checked closely to be sure I realized what parts of the program were untrue to daily life. I then watched the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles cartoon.”

  “I knew it,” muttered Britt. “Bringing up this child on the fast food of popular culture.”

  “One thing I’ve been unable to understand about that series,” Gillian said. “I know it is fantasy, but isn’t fantasy supposed to adhere to logic, too? Everyone knows mutagens work on the cellular level, not the gross morphological level.”

  Britt said, “You know it and we know it, but most elementary school kids don’t, and I’m not sure many TV executives know it.”

  “Did Volnar approve of this portion of your educational diet?” said Roger.

  “He says it is a refreshing example of mass culture’s acceptance of something bizarrely alien as admirable. Most aliens that capture the public’s fascination, he says, are either cute or erotically appealing.” With a puzzled frown, she added, “I have not fully learned what constitutes cuteness or eroticism. Are turtles not cute?”

  Roger rubbed his forehead. “I’m not up to a seminar on the components of cuteness at this moment.”

  “Perhaps Dr. Loren—Britt—will explain it to me later. After all, she is completely human.”

  “Certified card-carrying,” said Britt.

  “I watched a portion of Das Rheingold on public television. That was followed by Sesame Street. Big Bird visited Gabriella’s class at school. Would you like to hear me sing one of the Rhinemaidens’ arias? Or ‘I Gotta Be Blue,’ by Cookie Monster?”

  “Maybe later,” said Roger. “Did you try the chess program?”

  “I began a game, but the paper carrier interrupted me, and then Professor Greer arrived.”

  “Which brings us back to where we started. I suggest you continue your chess game until Claude and Eloise get here.”

  Britt said, “Gillian, I picked up some clothes for you on my lunch hour. I left the bag in the guest room.”

  Gillian acknowledged the gift with a stiff word of thanks. Roger sensed she still wasn’t sure how to deal with an ephemeral on equal terms.

  He joined Britt in the kitchen to broil a couple of steaks while she tossed a salad for herself. “Do you think you’ve actually gotten rid of Greer?” she said as she tore the lettuce.

  “Probably. And if he comes back, I’ll repeat the treatment as often as necessary. What can he do besides make a
nuisance of himself? He has no hard evidence, and I’ll make sure he doesn’t get any.”

  “Then why are you still tense?”

  From his vantage point at the kitchen table, Roger answered her only with a wry smile.

  [Because of Gillian?] Britt silently asked.

  [I don’t know what to do with her,] he admitted. [I don’t have the skills or the time to train her, yet I can’t betray her trust by throwing her back into Volnar’s clutches. As for persuading her to return voluntarily—]

  [Besides, you sort of resent having her around, and you feel guilty about that. Right?]

  [Colleague, sometimes I wonder why I bothered bonding with you. You read my mind perfectly well without my help.]

  The oven buzzed. Britt slid the steaks under the broiler, then sat at the table to slice tomatoes for her salad. [I’m sure this is only temporary. Once Gillian figures out what a dull life you lead, in a few days she’ll probably beg to get out of here.]

  [But in the meantime—]

  Britt put down the knife and gazed at him across the table. [Meanwhile, our vacation is starting day after tomorrow, and there goes our privacy. Right, colleague?] Beginning Friday, a week from Christmas, they would close the office until after New Year’s; too many patients took off during the holidays to make it worthwhile to schedule appointments.

  Roger nodded. [I do feel guilty for seeing her as an intrusion. But her appetite stimulates mine, which doesn’t make things any easier—and children her age are always hungry.]

  Britt laughed softly. [I noticed. This isn’t a breeze for me, either. I can’t help feeling that empty space inside her, and I want to do something.]

  Roger felt jealousy flaring within him and sternly tamped it down. How could he call himself a civilized adult if he perceived a half-grown child as a threat? He got up to remove his steak from the oven, leaving Britt’s to cook a little longer.

  “I thought about running by the pet shop to pick her up a few rats,” said Britt.

  “If she stays longer than a few nights, that might be wise. For the moment, I’m sure she’d rather hunt.” He salted his nearly raw steak while Britt tossed her salad with oil and vinegar. When her meat was ready, they ate at the kitchen table in comfortable silence. From the downstairs office he heard an occasional beep or fanfare from the computer.

  About the time they finished clearing the dishes, Claude and Eloise arrived.

  “She’s still here, isn’t she?” Eloise held up her tote bag. “I brought a computer game she might like.”

  Gillian emerged from the back room at once. She wore a fuzzy turquoise turtleneck sweater with matching knit slacks, apparently part of Britt’s purchase. “Good evening. What did you bring? May I try it now? The chess program defeated me in twenty-seven moves, and I need to think it over before I play again.”

  Claude greeted her with indulgent amusement. “What happened to, ‘How nice to see you again’ and ‘Did you have a pleasant day’?”

  Gillian said with a puzzled frown, “Should I have said that? Those rituals are human custom.”

  “Yes, and if you expect to mix with ephemerals, you have to practice their rituals, including small talk. Aside from glorious exceptions like Britt and Eloise, they don’t perceive emotions the way we do. They need meaningless space-filling noises to reassure each other.”

  “I will remember,” said Gillian. “Did you have a pleasant day?”

  Claude and Eloise shed their coats as everyone headed for the living room. Roger took the wraps to hang in the foyer closet. “I’m sure he spent it asleep,” said Roger, not attempting to hide the envy in his voice.

  Claude, taking a seat near the fireplace, ignored the comment. “Fine, and you?” he said to Gillian.

  “She had a visitor,” said Britt, “which I think she’s supposed to tell us about.”

  Roger laid fresh logs on the hearth and lit the fire. The room was already more than warm enough for him, but he knew Britt and Eloise liked the atmospheric touch. “Yes, you may as well give us the details and get it over with.”

  He felt tension emanating from Gillian. “I suppose I must tell you about the paper boy, too.”

  “What?” Roger heard more sharpness in his voice than he’d intended. Britt, seated next to him, touched his hand in a wordless reminder to moderate his tone. “Gillian, I hope you haven’t done anything unwise.”

  “I didn’t think so at the time. I was only—practicing. It almost happened again.”

  “It?” said Eloise, leaning forward with unabashed curiosity.

  Claude said to Gillian with no hint of reproach, “You’re speaking of transformation, yes?”

  Gillian nodded. “I thought it would be safe to play with him.” More words tumbled out, an account of impulsive self-indulgence leading to a loss of control.

  “You should have waited and discussed it with one of us,” Roger said.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Isn’t this a bit premature for you, anyway?”

  Claude answered for her. “Not necessarily. The need for psychic nourishment usually awakens along with the capacity to draw it. Your—gift—awoke in your mid-teens, and you learned to use it soon thereafter, n’est-ce pas? Your daughter is merely starting a little earlier.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Eloise. “If she’s too young for human blood—”

  “The craving to feed on human emotion normally develops first, with a possible gap of several years between the two.”

  Thank God for that! thought Roger.

  “There you go again,” said Britt, “talking about her as if she’s invisible. Is that vampire etiquette?”

  Claude turned his most charming smile upon Gillian. “Sometimes human customs have reason behind them. We don’t intend discourtesy. We’re only thinking of your welfare. Please continue with your story.”

  Roger felt Gillian’s self-consciousness at confessing her lack of control with four pairs of eyes fixed on her. She explained how Professor Greer had talked his way into the house and how she had tried to deal with him. Her aura rippled with agitation as she relived the panic he’d roused in her.

  “Easy, little one,” Claude interrupted. “It’s over, get hold of yourself. What’s the square root of 11,205?”

  Gillian answered instantly, “One hundred five point eight five—”

  “That’s fine, you needn’t bother with any more decimal places. What’s twenty-eight times ninety-one?”

  “Two thousand five hundred forty-eight.” Her breathing had slowed to normal by now.

  “Feeling better?” said Claude. “Good, please continue.”

  Britt silently commented, [Interesting technique. Do vampires always use mathematical drills to calm their children?]

  [How would I know?] said Roger.

  When Gillian had finished her narrative, Claude said, “This experience should have taught you at least two things—confound it, sit down, you’re making me nervous.” Gillian settled down on the rug near the hearth. “You need to learn to transform at will, and you need more practice in controlling human minds.”

  “Yes, I know,” said the girl, “but how can I practice without the risk of giving myself away? Professor Greer realized what I was trying to do to him.”

  “Normally you’d have to exercise your skills on victims with your advisor monitoring. However, in your case I have a better idea.” He cut off her questions. “First, how about a few transformation exercises?”

  Gillian sprang to her feet. “I would like that very much. Where?”

  “Better not try it outside where someone might stumble on you until your skill improves. Right here should do perfectly well, if Roger doesn’t mind.”

  “Certainly not,” said Roger. He looked forward to observing the “exercise.” Since he lacked the gene for that talent, his curiosity about the change had never been fully satisfied.

  Eloise half-rose from the love seat. “Do you want us to leave?” Roger sensed her eagerness to stay and watc
h. Britt, he knew, felt the same way.

  Claude arched his eyebrows questioningly at Gillian.

  “I would be glad to have them present.”

  Roger wondered at her willingness to be watched. Did she, perhaps, luxuriate in the idea of impressing the two human females with her alluring alienness ?I have to stop thinking this way—she’s only a child!

  Britt picked up the thought. [Not too much of a child to know what she wants. I’ll bet you’ve hit it, colleague.]

  “The first thing we need,” said Claude, “is plenty of space.” Eloise stood up for a minute to let him move the love seat back from the center of the room. “Take off your sweater,” he told Gillian. At the same time he stripped to the waist. Nudity meant nothing to vampires, as Roger knew, but since he’d had little contact with his mother’s kind, the casualness still came as a mild shock to him.

  Claude and Gillian stood face to face in the middle of the rug. “The next thing you need is an instructor who’s bonded with you and can plant the technique directly in your mind. Since you’ve refused that, you’ll have to make do with me.”

  “Yes, sir.” A tremor crept into her voice.

  Stretching his arms out to his sides, Claude turned his back to Gillian. “Watch. Not just with your eyes, but with your ears and mind, too. Pay attention to the shade of my aura, the changes in my heartbeat and respiration.”

  A velvet black growth sprouted on Claude’s torso and flowed up his chest, along his arms, and over his face. His ears grew pointed, and he bared his teeth to display fangs that his proper shape didn’t wear. Silver-gray wings billowed out from his shoulders. Roger saw him as if through a shimmering veil. Claude’s image shifted in and out of focus, doubled like two negatives superimposed on each other. Behind the winged shape, Roger saw the true humanoid form.

  He couldn’t quite suppress his envy of this power. Because of his human genes, the delirious freedom of transformation and flight were denied him. At the same, time he felt anxious about Gillian. Had she inherited his weakness? Would she fail at the change and think herself flawed?

  Momentarily slipping into Britt’s mind and viewing Claude through her eyes, Roger no longer perceived the shadowy layers of illusion. Through Britt’s human vision, he saw the wings, fur, feral ears, and fangs as completely solid, fixed rather than in flux. Part of the change, Roger knew, was a real alteration of surface molecules, while part was a projection that worked on the human mind. Much depended on the viewer’s preconceptions.