Child of Twilight

by Margaret L. Carter

  “Does it have to be that way?” said Greer.

  “You do want to help, don’t you?” Claude asked in a dangerously quiet voice. When the professor nodded, he said, “Through your mind, we may be able to get a fix on Camille’s location. Will you cooperate, or must I force you?”

  “I’ll try to cooperate. But how—”

  Claude cut him off. “The less you know the safer you will be. I don’t even intend to let you remember what you tell us.” Getting up from the love seat opposite the one occupied by Greer and Britt, Claude pulled up a chair to a spot where he could gaze into Greer’s face at close range. Greer flinched. Though Roger couldn’t see well from his position on the love seat across the room, he suspected the angle of the firelight from Greer’s vantage point brought out the gleam of red in Claude’s eyes.

  Claude brushed his fingertips across the professor’s forehead. “Relax. You’re safe here under our protection, and we mean you no harm.” He took the coffee cup from Greer’s hands, which immediately went limp. With admiration, and a touch of envy, Roger watched Claude send the subject into a trance with a few light strokes along temples and shoulder blades, augmented by a couple of minutes of meaningless patter in an almost inaudible voice. Greer’s heartbeat slowed, and the agitated fluctuation of his aura stilled. “Now you will answer our questions in a calm and unworried manner,” said Claude, “and when I awaken you, you’ll remember nothing of what we’ve said to each other.” He moved his chair aside to give Roger an unobstructed view of the hypnotized man. “He’s all yours.”

  Britt leaned forward for a better look. Skirting the coffee table, Roger walked over to stand in front of Greer. “You have the ability to reach out to Camille and link with her mind. I’m going to use that ability to locate her, through you.”

  Claude softly interrupted, “I suggest you use a hit-and-run technique. We want to avoid catching her attention.”

  Roger nodded. He said to Greer, “First, I’d like you to tell me whether she is watching you at this moment. Think of her—not as you last saw her, but as she looked the instant before she kissed you. Hold that image in your mind. Now, reach out to Camille. Do you have contact?”

  Greer nodded, heavy-lidded. “I see her.”

  “Delicately, please—watch her from outside only. Where is she?”

  In a distant monotone Greer said, “On the freeway.”

  Roger silently cursed. To discover Camille’s present lair, if she had one, they had to catch her when she wasn’t on the move. “Does she feel your presence?”

  The professor’s brow furrowed. “No.”

  “Disengage from her. Come back.” Greer nodded slowly. Roger continued, “What freeway? Did you see?”

  “Fifty west.”

  Roger mulled over the information. Suppose Camille was heading out of the area altogether? She could drive beyond Greer’s range in an hour or two. “Rest and renew your strength,” he ordered. “You’ll be aware of nothing until I speak to you again.” Greer closed his eyes and slumped back on the couch.

  Britt said, “Van Helsing made it sound a lot easier, didn’t he?”

  “All I can do,” Roger said, “is continue checking periodically until she arrives at her destination, if that happens before she gets out of reach.”

  “I agree,” said Claude. “Which, with a new, untested bond, won’t be long.”

  “How encouraging,” said Britt. She fingered Greer’s wrist to count his pulse without inducing any reaction from him.

  After a five-minute wait Roger sent Greer into Camille’s mind again. “Is she still driving?”

  “Yes. The highway looks so light—like dusk, not the middle of the night.”

  “Still the freeway?”

  “Yes.”

  “Does she feel you in her mind?”

  “No.”

  Roger decided to risk further probing. “Is she alone in the car?”

  “No. A girl.”

  “Look closely. Is it Gillian?”

  “Yes.” Greer’s head shifted on the cushion. “We’re slowing down. The car’s on a curve.”

  “Is it an off-ramp?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where? Read the sign.” Roger strove to keep his voice even and avoid agitating the hypnotic subject.

  “Bowie,” said Greer.

  “Very good. Get out, come back, and rest again.”

  “That’s good, she isn’t planning to drive forever,” Claude said. “Logical. If she wants to strike at you, clearing out of your territory isn’t the way to do it.”

  Britt asked Roger, [What is your territory, anyway? How many square miles are you allotted?]

  He dryly answered, [I don’t know, I’ve never gotten around to staking a claim.] A few minutes later he said to Greer, “Go back to Camille. Are you with her?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Good. What is the car doing now?”

  “Turning onto a divided roadway. Lights. Used car dealers. Motels. Slowing at a motel.”

  “Read me the name.”

  “Pine Tree Lodge. Got a Quality Court seal.” Greer exhaled a long, shaky breath. “She’s pulling into a parking space. Her fingers feel cramped from holding the wheel. She turns off the engine and opens the door. Cold air feels good. The kid opens her door. Asks where they’re going for dinner. Camille’s hungry—no, more like thirsty—”

  An urgent whisper from Claude: “Pull him out, now!”

  Greer muttered, “I should be with her—but I don’t want her to—”

  Roger gripped the man’s shoulders and ordered him to open his eyes. “Look at me! She has no power over you. Get away from her. Come back to this place and time.”

  “Yes.” Greer’s eyes rolled. Roger sensed a slackening of the pressure that had built over the past minute or so. The link had been inactivated once more, though it remained present, ready to be awakened.

  “That was becoming entirely too intimate,” said Claude. “Much more and she would certainly have noticed his attention.”

  “Now we know where she is,” Britt said.

  “Yes, we can get rid of him, and not a minute too soon for me,” Roger said. He turned Greer over to Claude, who ordered him to forget what had transpired and roused him from the trance.

  At the door Roger tried one more command. “You must go back to your normal activities and forget your interest in me and Gillian. Meddling with us is dangerous. It’s brought you nothing but trouble. You don’t want to pursue it any further.”

  “Right,” said Greer. Still dazed, occasionally shaking his head like a swimmer with water in the ears, he staggered across the parking lot to his van.

  “What do you think?” Britt said when they’d regrouped in the living room. “Will that stick?”

  “Unless Camille interferes with him again, we can hope so,” Roger said. “I wish I dared try to wipe his memory of us altogether, but—”

  “Best not to,” said Claude. “One of the elders could pull it off, maybe. You or I would probably end up with a psychotic on our hands.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if he came around again,” Britt said, “eventually, when his fear of you wears off. I understand what drives him. You think I wouldn’t slap you between the covers of a book at supersonic speed, if I didn’t have personal motives for keeping your secret?”

  Roger returned her affectionate smile. “I’m incredibly fortunate that it was you who unmasked me, not someone less understanding.”

  “In my profession, I live on the edge of that possibility night after night,” said Claude, “so I have a personal stake in your keeping him in line. I assume you’ll head for that motel in Bowie at once? Shall I come along?”

  “I’d be grateful,” Roger said. Before Britt could speak, he told her, “You stay here.” He cut short her protest with, “As much as you may dislike the fact, you’d be a liability. If you stay behind, you’re our backup in case of disaster.”

  “Oh, all right, I won’t argue.” She gave him he
r word to stay put, monitoring their progress telepathically. Despite Claude’s presence, Roger kissed her goodbye with unaccustomed thoroughness before they left.

  ONCE INSIDE THEIR new motel room with Gillian, Camille didn’t feel the security she had hoped for. They’d transferred here from last night’s no-frills roadside lodging after the predawn meal and settled in for a full day’s rest. In the evening, Camille had taken the child with her to Annapolis to pick up the luggage she’d left at the Holiday Inn there. She didn’t yet trust Gillian alone. Suppose in Camille’s absence, the girl’s loyalty wavered back in Roger’s direction?

  Gillian did venture to ask whether she should call Roger to let him know she was safe. Camille had squelched that idea at once. “What makes you think he cares? And you do want to stay with me, don’t you? Roger would make that difficult. He probably has distorted ideas about my character.”

  To Camille’s relief Gillian accepted the argument without much resistance. Unpacking her suitcases at the new motel while Gillian bathed, Camille pondered what to do with the child. Since her original belief that Gillian lived with Roger as his daughter had been disproved, Camille couldn’t be sure that destroying or corrupting the girl would hurt Roger as badly as she wanted to hurt him. She still planned to convert Gillian into her adoring disciple, though. There must be some way she could use a converted Gillian against her enemy. Meanwhile she rather enjoyed watching the girl exercise her new abilities. After all, Camille would probably never have a child of her own to train.

  On the drive to and from Annapolis, Camille had drawn Gillian, with a few ostensibly casual questions, into discussing her father. Camille now knew that Roger possessed a human pet he treated with an absurd degree of fondness. Maybe Gillian, once trained, could be used to strike at Roger through that female. What deliciously apt justice if Roger’s lover became his daughter’s first human victim!

  Although Camille hadn’t firmed her plans yet, these speculations gave her great pleasure. Her immediate worry was not how to use Gillian, but what to do about the warning prickle she’d felt inside her head at the moment she drove into the motel parking lot. She felt a nagging desire to check on Adam Greer.

  The thought was distasteful to her. She didn’t enjoy the prospect of rooting around in an ephemeral’s mind, what there was of it. When she’d forced Greer to taste her blood, she’d viewed the bond as purely an emergency precaution. If he was daring to poke into her head, though, she would have to discipline him.

  In the bathroom, the water stopped running, and gentle splashing noises drifted through the closed door. “Don’t bother me for a few minutes,” Camille called to Gillian. “I need to concentrate.”

  Sitting cross-legged in the middle of one of the double beds, Camille closed her eyes and cleared her mind. Though she’d never bonded with anyone but her advisor, whose thoughts she had not touched in decades, she remembered how to make contact. Some things the nervous system never forgot. She invoked a memory of Greer, the scent of his skin, the bristle of his beard against her cheek, the taste of his blood. With no more effort than slipping on a coat, she glided into his mind.

  Through his eyes she saw a nearly deserted highway unrolling before him. His head ached, his throat was sore, and a drained weariness dragged at his limbs.

  [Adam!] she silently called.

  He jumped, jerking the steering wheel sideways.

  [Don’t do that! Get control of yourself.] Under the pressure of her will he steered the car off the shoulder and settled back to a steady speed. [That’s better. Tell me, Adam, where are you going?]

  [I’m not hearing you. You aren’t there. I’m losing my mind.] Her silent insistence weighed upon him until his resistance caved in. [I’m going back to College Park for the rest of the convention. What do you want?]

  [What have you been doing? Where did you go this evening?]

  [To Annapolis to see Dr. Darvell.]

  Camille hastily withdrew from his mind, afraid her rage would wreck her precarious control over her victim. So Roger had been at him! So the half-breed—hell devour him—knew Greer was linked to her! He must know—that must have been the meaning of the fleeting mind-touch she’d felt in the parking lot. So Adam Greer was no longer an asset but a liability.

  No ephemeral could be allowed to remain a chink in her armor. Calming herself, she reached for Greer again. [Adam, I’m sorry I had to hurt you. But I did you no real harm, did I? And you enjoyed what we shared, didn’t you?] She planted in his mind an image of their embrace. She felt his lust rising, his self-contempt helpless against the lurid memory.

  [You don’t want to go back to the convention,] she told him. [You want to come to me.]

  A tortured No rasped from his hoarse throat, yet his inward self screamed Yes.

  [Keep driving westward. I’ll find a place to meet, and I’ll guide you to it.] Satisfied of his submission, she withdrew from his brain, all except a tendril of contact to monitor his progress.

  Uncurling herself, she plucked her discarded shoes off the carpet. “Hurry up and get dressed,” she called to Gillian. “We have to move.”

  Water gurgled down the bathtub drain. “Pardon? We just got here.”

  Camille began tossing clothes back into her suitcase. “No matter, we have to be elsewhere. Someone we don’t want to see knows where we are.”

  Used to following orders, Gillian made little protest. A few minutes later, they were packed and driving away. They no longer had Greer’s rented compact, which they’d abandoned in a convenience store lot before switching motels. Camille had lurked in wait for a solitary customer to emerge, car keys in hand, and had hypnotized him into unconsciousness before taking his keys and cash. She trusted that the change of vehicle would make her almost impossible to trace by mundane means.

  Fifteen minutes east on Route 50, Camille checked into another mid-priced motel, grumbling to herself at the annoying expense of three rooms in a twenty-four hour period. She would have to get possession of more cash, since credit cards would leave a trail. Noting a restaurant across the street whose cocktail lounge had a separate entrance, she reactivated the bond with Greer.

  [Adam, I know you betrayed me to Roger Darvell.] His start of alarm confirmed her hunch. [I’ve forgiven you for that. I know you’re only human and can’t resist his power. You want to be with me again, and I’m ready. Come to me here, now.] She gave him directions to the restaurant and ordered him to meet her in the bar.

  “Gillian, I have to go out,” she said, stripping off her slacks to change into a dress. “You’re to stay in the room, understand?”

  Gillian, subdued by Camille’s atypical grimness, said, “Yes, of course. Where—”

  “I’ll talk to you when I get back.” She dressed quickly and hurried out, slamming the door behind her. She could hardly contain her anger at the man. Her prey, turning against her, a tool for her enemy! She knew she had to channel the rage into a simulation of passion, or she could frighten him away before he swallowed her bait.

  In the lounge, Camille ordered a frozen strawberry daiquiri, both to calm herself and to give herself an excuse to linger until Greer showed. He couldn’t be left on the loose for Roger to use in tracking her. Roger would betray her to Volnar, and the Prime Elder would condemn her to captivity again.

  Her imprisonment, the brief parts not obliterated by suspended animation, was mercifully vague in her memory. But she recalled enough—the unprecedented terror of absolute darkness in a casket too tight to admit the least ray of illumination, the agony of thirst and suffocation before she fell into coma, the scars on her hands from pounding and scratching at the wooden lid, the bitter taste of her own blood, the blinding shards of light that lacerated her eyes each time she was half-awakened for testing by one of the elders.

  This last time, finally, after fourteen years, she’d convinced them of her surrender. Her rehabilitation! Well, maybe they had broken her, but only temporarily. A few feedings had restored her spirit and enlivened the memo
ries of her outrage. Once revived, she’d managed to maintain the submissive pretense long enough to get free of the watch set over her.

  And I’ll stay free. Before I’d go back to that, I’d let them kill me!

  Chapter Eleven

  EVERY TIME FOOTSTEPS sounded in the corridor outside the room, Gillian’s nerves twitched. Why had Camille left so abruptly? Why the secretive manner? The woman allowed no crack in her mental barrier for emotion to seep out. True, Volnar kept himself shielded, too, but that behavior was expected of an elder. Camille wasn’t at all like him otherwise.

  As soon as Camille had left, Gillian had stripped off her filthy clothes and taken another bath. Afterward she sat naked on the bed watching television, which soon lost interest for her. She flipped between a stand-up comedy show whose jokes made no sense to her and a Masterpiece Theater rerun of “I, Claudius.”

  When Camille’s key turned in the door, a glance at the clock radio told Gillian that she hadn’t been left alone as long as her subjective time sense perceived. Camille stepped inside, bolted the door, and transfixed Gillian with eyes as cold as a reptile’s.

  “What happened?” Gillian whispered. She used the remote to flick off the TV.

  Blinking, Camille looked at Gillian as if noticing her for the first time. “Adam Greer threatened us. I got rid of him.”

  “How?”

  “You don’t need to know.”

  Though Camille’s icy stillness troubled her, she persisted. “I want to know. I have to learn how to handle—threats.”

  “Very well.” Sitting against the headboard of the other bed, Camille continued in her normal voice, “I summoned him to me and commanded him to destroy himself. He betrayed me. It would have been too dangerous to let him live.”

  “But the rules—”

  “Rules!” Camille scornfully bared her teeth. “I didn’t break the spirit of their rules. I haven’t lost all regard for my own safety. The man died in a way that won’t be linked to us.”

  “Are you certain he’s dead?”