Child of Twilight

by Margaret L. Carter

  He heard Britt’s breathing quicken. A shaft of jealousy stabbed him. Britt’s fingers curled around his. [Scientific ardor, colleague. I was just thinking that next time I want to take his pulse while he’s doing that.]

  Though the rise in her skin temperature hinted that her ardor was more than scientific, he didn’t challenge her on the point. Claude again turned to face Gillian. “Now you try it, but don’t change completely. Stop short of allowing the wings to materialize.”

  Gillian drew a deep breath. Roger scanned her thin torso. She was completely flat-chested; secondary sexual characteristics wouldn’t develop until her late teens, since her body wouldn’t be mature enough to ovulate until about age thirty. The inverted triangle of downy hair extending from her nipples over her ribcage to its apex at the navel was no more than a golden shadow. She inhaled again, and on the shuddering exhalation, the hair appeared to darken and spread. Instead of proceeding slowly like Claude’s change, Gillian’s transformation engulfed her like flame devouring a dry tree. The wings burst forth like a butterfly emerging in a fast-forward movie. For a second her eyes glowed with the ecstasy of release. Then, recognizing her loss of control, she twisted her body back into human form. Roger sensed the cramp-like pang she couldn’t help broadcasting.

  Her long white fingers covered her eyes. “Suppose I never learn? What if I’m too human?” She lowered her hands to flash an accusatory look at Roger. “You can’t change at all, can you?”

  “No. But you clearly don’t have that problem.” Her anxiety gnawed at him and stirred irrational guilt.

  Claude ruffled her short auburn curls. “Brace up, little one. You’ve hardly begun to try.” He guided her hand to the center of his chest. “Let your pulse resonate with mine. Feel the alteration in my cells. See, I can talk to you and maintain this shape at the same time—it isn’t that difficult. Now, again—just the hair and the teeth.”

  In slow motion this time, dark fur—not black, but Irish Setter red to match her hair—crept over Gillian’s chest and arms. When she bared her teeth, wolfish fangs protruded between her lips.

  “Good,” said Claude in a low croon, as if soothing a skittish horse. “Stop there for a minute. The fangs aren’t much use for feeding or self-defense, because you’d have to get much older before you could indulge in violent emotion without reverting to human form. But they do serve very well for terrifying an attacker into helplessness.” Gillian trembled as if on the verge of an explosion. “Very well, now the rest of it,” Claude softly ordered.

  Again, her face and ears turned feline, while delicate, pale green wings erupted. Like a Fourth of July sparkler blazing up and burning out, she cycled through the change in seconds and lapsed back into her ordinary shape. Cringing away from Claude’s touch, she moaned aloud. “I simply can’t keep it stable!”

  “This looks exhausting,” Eloise murmured.

  “I agree,” said Britt. “Isn’t it enough for one night?”

  Gillian, impaled on Claude’s direct gaze, didn’t seem to be listening. Roger quietly answered Britt, “I’m sure Claude knows what he’s doing. He’s the only one here with experience.”

  Claude went on with implacable kindness, “Steady, Gillian—you’ll get it eventually. Watch.” His wings shifted from silver to green to crimson, finally settling on pearl-gray. To Roger, Claude appeared to stand at the center of a kaleidoscope. “You can’t expect to achieve that fine-tuned control in one night. But with practice, you will. It’s important that you change voluntarily on a regular schedule, especially at your age. The transforming urge is a drive, a need, and if you don’t exercise the power, you’ll keep suffering these involuntary seizures.”

  Gillian nodded her understanding. Holding hands with Claude, she once more turned her focus inward. In a smooth progression of shifts, she first changed her body and hands, then her face and ears, then last allowed the wings to blossom. She stood on tiptoe, breathing shallowly as if afraid she would shatter like crystal. “It feels so—” she whispered. “It’s like a burning inside, but painless.” Finding that her new form didn’t melt away this time, she said in a firmer voice, “But what use is it? Flying is dangerous—someone might catch me.”

  “It was useful in a precivilized world, no doubt,” said Claude. “Now it’s purely recreational, and finding a place to indulge safely is just one of the trade-offs we pay for living in this society.”

  Roger spoke out of his residual envy for this wild talent. “Do you think it’s worth it?”

  “On balance, yes.” He said to Gillian, “And so will you, once you develop your skill. You’ve had almost enough for one session. Before you shift back, though, I’d like to see whether you can hold steady with someone touching you.” He beckoned to his wife.

  Eloise stepped to Gillian’s side. “May I touch you?”

  Gillian nodded dubiously.

  “Yes, you’re hypersensitive when your molecules are in flux, so you have to be very careful about physical contact,” said Claude. “But don’t be afraid, Eloise has ample experience.”

  Blushing, Eloise ran her fingertips along the upper edge of one of Gillian’s wings. The girl reacted with a hissing intake of breath. Her aura vibrated with conflicting apprehension and pleasure. “I won’t hurt you,” Eloise murmured.

  “That’s right,” said Claude. “But never forget how easily someone could. In this shape, you’re vulnerable.”

  “How does it feel, Gillian?” asked Britt.

  “As if she were touching me under the skin—touching exposed nerves. It makes me want—” While Gillian couldn’t blush, Roger noticed a momentary dimming of her aura that seemed to convey the same meaning.

  “Congratulations, you’re normal,” said Claude dryly. “You’d better stop, love, before you blow her circuits.”

  To Roger, the air seemed to hum with suppressed excitement. He felt relieved when both Claude and Gillian reverted to their ordinary selves.

  “Now, while your problems with Greer are fresh in your mind,” said Claude, “there’s something else I want you to try.” He put on his shirt and buttoned it halfway up, a style that gave him a rather piratical air. “The only way to gain confidence in your control over human minds is through practical application.”

  “Now?” She paused to pull on her sweater. “But I’m hungry.”

  “Exactly. For this exercise, hunger will be an asset.” He turned to Eloise. “Afraid I can’t ask for your help this time. You’re too soft-hearted. Britt—”

  From her corner near the fire, Eloise said, “I think I’m being insulted.”

  Britt laughed and said, “I don’t know. What does that make me, the cruel witch?”

  The point of Claude’s remark penetrated Roger’s brain. “Wait a minute—are you suggesting Gillian practice psychic domination on Britt?”

  “Calm down, old man, it’s perfectly safe. We’re here, aren’t we?” Claude resumed his seat next to Eloise, casually draping his arm over her shoulders. “And if Gillian couldn’t break down Greer’s resistance, do you think for a moment she can override Britt’s?” He said to Gillian, “What you need is to build up your mental strength by testing it against an experienced, fully aware target. You’ve got a rare opportunity here. Usually we’re reduced to practicing on unwitting victims, so when we meet any real resistance, it’s a shock.”

  In response to Roger’s silent qualms, Britt said aloud, “Stop worrying, colleague, I know she can’t hurt me. My problem with the idea is that I’m really not much of a target. I won’t want to fight.”

  “You’re a professional, though,” Claude said. “You can understand that resisting her is for her own good. Gillian, go sit beside Britt.” Britt moved closer to Roger to make room for the girl. “Excellent. Take her hands and look into her eyes—like that. You said you’re hungry—psychic hunger, not merely physical. Your two experiments this afternoon didn’t satisfy you. Well, here’s your chance. Take what you need.”

  Roger heard the deliberate
taunt in Claude’s voice and recognized it for what it was, a ploy to goad Gillian to her best effort. Nevertheless he could barely restrain himself from tearing Gillian away from Britt. Don’t touch her, she’s mine!

  Britt’s cool amusement washed over him. [Really, colleague, this is strictly for didactic purposes. Now, stop distracting me.]

  Rather than trying to evade Gillian’s hypnotic stare, Britt met and challenged it. Roger braced himself against the temptation to merge with Britt’s mind and help her resist the attack. Aside from the unfairness to Gillian, he knew that if he directly experienced the child’s invasion, he wouldn’t be able to endure it without interfering. Anyway, Britt needed no help to block the initial attack. Roger felt Gillian trying a frontal assault, which Britt was prepared for. Her barrier held firm. She tossed a side comment to Roger: [This is too easy. I feel as if she’s the one you should be helping.]

  Soon realizing that brute force wouldn’t work against an experienced opponent, Gillian changed her strategy. Roger felt the energy beating against Britt like waves on rock— submit, submit! —dissipate. Instead, Gillian’s projected image of herself softened, melted. Her need became a fragrant cloud that enfolded Britt in dreamy warmth. Roger felt Britt relax, reclining on the insubstantial cushion of mist like a swimmer floating on her back in a sun-warmed tide pool—but only for a moment. With no prompting from him, Britt awoke to the seduction and forced herself to vigilance.

  Roger felt Gillian’s spasm of irritation when Britt snapped out of the nascent trance. The girl immediately schooled herself to renewed calm, however, and tried a slightly different tactic. Still yielding, inviting, she infused her emotional projection with stronger urgency. She bared her hunger to Britt. Within seconds the void within her became so palpable that Roger ached in sympathy. Damn it, she has to stop this!

  Momentarily Britt leaned toward Gillian as if ready to embrace her, then drew back and shook her head. Across the room Claude and Eloise were intently watching. Eloise inched away from Claude and muttered, “Come on, this isn’t fair!”

  Britt withdrew her hands from Gillian’s. “Damn straight it isn’t! Claude, why are you encouraging the poor kid to torture herself and the rest of us, too?”

  To Roger’s relief the electricity in the air began to fade. Claude exhaled a shaky breath. “You do have a point. She’s stronger than I expected. But so are you—you gave her a good fight. Very good for a first try, Gillian. I trust the next time you’re faced with someone like Greer, you won’t be at a total loss?”

  Gillian was breathing harshly, unable to form a coherent answer. Britt said, “Oh, for heaven’s sake, this is ridiculous! Contest’s over; let’s call it a draw.” Roger felt an outpouring of sympathy rush from her to Gillian. When Britt reached out to hug the girl, Gillian flinched—naturally enough, the sudden move felt like an attack to her. Britt ignored that response and overrode it with her impulsive affection.

  For a minute Gillian returned the embrace. Roger noticed the awkwardness of the gesture, as if hugging weren’t in the child’s behavioral repertoire. Probably hasn’t been since age three, when she was weaned. When Britt released her, she leaned back with a long sigh. As the tension in the room relaxed, Roger realized that he’d been clenching his fists to keep from pulling Britt and Gillian apart.

  [That wasn’t so terrible, was it?] Britt’s inner voice sounded a bit tired, but satisfied. [You didn’t think she’d drain me and leave me prostrate, did you?]

  Roger clasped her hand. Her skin felt cooler than normal. [The child doesn’t know her own strength. They’re voracious at that age; she might not have known when to stop.] Though fully aware that the energy drain in the absence of bloodletting was only temporary, restorable within an hour or two by ordinary rest, he couldn’t deny his irrational fear for Britt’s health.

  [Well, I would’ve known when to stop,] Britt countered. [Worrywart.]

  Claude stood up and finished buttoning his shirt. “Now you’ll want some more substantial nourishment, I daresay. It’s been dark long enough that we can hunt safely.” He directed a questioning look at Roger.

  “Yes, you shouldn’t have any problem. I won’t come with you this time.”

  Claude shrugged. “Brother, sometimes I worry about this asceticism of yours. Gillian, before we leave, haven’t you forgotten something?”

  She looked blank.

  “When you’re dealing with an equal, not a victim, there are social courtesies to be observed.”

  “Pardon? Oh!” Gillian said gravely, “Thank you, Dr. Loren, that was most enjoyable.”

  Britt said, “You’re welcome,” and heroically managed not to laugh.

  After Claude and Gillian went out the back door, Eloise said, “What’s going to happen to the kid when she has to get her meals from people whose whole idea of vampires is Bela Lugosi? Maybe we really are corrupting her.”

  “Too late now,” said Britt. “Roger, if you didn’t want her corrupted, you should never have let her in the house. I wasn’t about to sit around and watch her suffer.”

  “That won’t present a long-term problem,” he said, “because she won’t be staying for long. I fully intend to get her back to Volnar soon, one way or another.” Contemplating that prospect threatened to plunge him into gloom. So far, he hadn’t hit upon any way of persuading Gillian into that course of action.

  Sensing his mood shift, Britt said, “I guess now isn’t the time to ask how you’re going to arrange that. Eloise, would you like to see my half-finished draft for that article on the Sesame Street monsters?”

  “Lead on.” Eloise took her reading glasses from her purse and started to put them on. She paused, clutching her ribs with a grimace of pain, but waved away Britt’s expression of concern. “Just a cramp. Probably ate too much at dinner.”

  Roger followed them into the office. While Britt was retrieving her file on the computer, the phone rang. Roger wasn’t completely surprised to hear Dr. Volnar’s voice.

  “Where are you calling from?” Roger said. “I don’t have to ask why you’re calling.”

  “Oh? I wouldn’t expect you to know. Claude doesn’t.”

  “Know what? Aren’t you phoning about Gillian?”

  “Oh, I see. I’m in New York,” said Volnar, “and as a matter of fact, Gillian is not the reason I’m contacting you. You’ve heard from her?”

  Volnar’s cool, remote tone seldom varied. Hearing him use that tone in regard to a runaway child strained Roger’s self-control to the limit. He reminded himself that flaring up at the Prime Elder never did the slightest good. Sometimes he wondered whether Volnar’s emotions had gone into permanent dormancy several millennia in the past. “No, I haven’t heard from her. She’s here. She appeared on my doorstep last night.”

  “Indeed? Then she has managed to surprise me.”

  “Damn and blast it to hell! Haven’t you even tried to find her?”

  “Compose yourself, Roger.” The ghost of a chuckle. “You give me very little credit, young man. I assumed Gillian would turn to her mother, if she felt my company had become insupportable. I checked Juliette’s home just outside Williamsburg, on the remote chance that Gillian had some idea of hiding there. Not finding her, I went on to New York as scheduled, on the premise that the child had probably joined her mother here. Since that wasn’t the case, I’m relieved to learn that Gillian is safe with you.”

  “What do you plan to do about it? She doesn’t want to go back to you.”

  “There’s no reason why she need do so at the moment. She can stay with you for a few nights, since another urgent concern has come up—the actual reason I called.”

  In his preoccupation with Gillian Roger had hardly noticed Volnar’s earlier remark about another purpose for telephoning. “What are you talking about?”

  “You know that Neil Sandor had a twin sister, Camille.”

  The statement fell into a resonating silence. After a moment Roger said, “What about her?”

  “After
Sandor’s death—quite justified, and the responsible elements among our race support me on that—she petitioned the Council to have you punished. Executed was the term she used.”

  Roger briefly remained silent, choking down his anger. “Why wasn’t I told?”

  “As they say in government circles, you had no need to know. Camille made irresponsible threats, we placed her in confinement, and there was no need for you to be involved at all.”

  “Confinement?”

  “She might have attacked you. We prevented that. Since your growth was at a delicate stage then, I saw no reason to disturb you with these facts. For the past fourteen years, Camille has been imprisoned—comatose—in a sealed casket.”

  “Buried alive?” If the cliché a fate worse than death had any meaning, Roger thought, that must be it.

  “It isn’t so bad as it sounds. Within days, or at most weeks, she would have lost consciousness from lack of oxygen.”

  Volnar’s reassurance failed to reassure. Roger’s inconveniently vivid imagination hinted at what the woman must have suffered before oblivion released her. “Why are you telling me this now?”

  “Her sentence, so to speak, has recently expired,” said Volnar. “Frequently, this enforced dormancy has its desired effect, and the—patient—awakens with a new perspective on his or her experience. Camille was released on parole, as it were, on condition that she keep me, through our Nevada headquarters, informed of her whereabouts. Within the past forty-eight hour, she stole a car and disappeared.”

  “And you’re looking for her? That’s your urgent mission?”

  “Precisely. You now have a need to know—since Camille is probably on her way to carry out her delayed revenge.”