Claude’s attenuated aura confirmed the message of his body language. He drooped, that was the only word for his posture. Roger had never seen him in such a bleak mood. “Yes, I know I look like hell,” said Claude, correctly interpreting Roger’s expression. “Believe it or not, I’ve never been this seriously injured before. It’s like being ill—the way I imagine illness must feel. Extremely unpleasant.”
“You’ve overextended yourself.” Roger cut off the lecture he’d been about to deliver. Midnight Sunday was a bit late to tell Claude he should have cancelled the convention appearances. “So has Eloise. I hope she’s resting comfortably?” He took the remaining armchair, low and angular like the couch.
“As well as can be expected.” Sigmund padded into the living room and jumped onto Claude’s lap. Obviously having made the cat’s acquaintance already, Claude mechanically stroked the cream-colored fur.
“Is she still determined not to conceive again?”
Claude nodded. “I’m more than willing to try, but she’s adamant. Can’t blame her for being afraid, I suppose. And in a way, I’m relieved. I detest the thought of putting her through that agony again.”
Britt sat up, raking her fingers through her tousled hair. “One instance doesn’t necessarily constitute a pattern, you know.”
“Try to convince her of that.” Claude’s mouth was set in a grim line. “And I understand her feeling—even if she doesn’t believe I can. It was a gamble to begin with.”
Roger went into the kitchen to pour himself a glass of milk. He did the same for Claude, spiking it with brandy. As an afterthought he added a shot to his own glass, too. He realized that he hadn’t eaten since the previous night.
Claude grimaced at the offer of cold milk but drank it without verbal protest. Like Roger, he was doubtless too hungry to care. “We’ll be going now,” Roger said, “and let you rest.”
“Wish I could do something else to help,” Claude said. “But to tell the truth, old thing, I’ve hardly got the energy to move from here to the bedroom when the sun rises.”
“Yes, you need sleep. You’ve been up for two days straight; even we can’t go on like that indefinitely.”
“Sounds good to me too,” said Britt. “Unlike you guys, I’m only human.” She yawned and reached for the coat she’d dropped at the end of the couch, the stretch pulling her sweater tight across her breasts.
Claude said with a wry smile, “Yes, little brother, get her out of here before I forget whose she is. I’m not made of stone.”
On the way home Roger tried to enjoy having Britt cuddle up to him without letting the contact whet his appetite. He was too tired for such strenuous doublethink. Impatient though he was to pursue the search for Camille and Gillian— how? if the woman wants to mock me by strewing a trail of victims and making herself impossible to find, what can I do about it? —he knew he would have to sleep through the day also.
After he’d sent Britt to bed alone over her protests, he checked the answering machine. Captain Hayes had called to pass on the information about Camille’s latest crime, which Roger had discovered on his own. The second message he played back was from Juliette:
“Hello, Roger, it’s midnight, Sunday. Since I haven’t heard from you yet, I guess Gillian is still missing. Volnar’s flight finally got off to London. I’m driving down to Maryland tomorrow night if I don’t hear any news by late afternoon. Don’t know what I can do, but I have to try.”
Roger’s stomach churned at the prospect of facing Juliette after his carelessness had made their daughter a victim. On the other hand, the meeting would offer him a chance to persuade Juliette that he should have a role in Gillian’s upbringing, when they got her back. If this episode doesn’t convince Juliette of my total unfitness. If Gillian ever comes back at all.
Of course she would. He’d make sure of it, if he had to trade himself to Camille for her freedom.
You’re not thinking straight , he told himself. Why would Camille be fool enough to accept an offer like that? Gillian gives her just the leverage she wants.
“WHY DO YOU waste emotion on the deaths of ephemerals?” Camille said as they drove down 95 South. Gillian found herself getting very tired of riding in cars. “They all die eventually. Considering how short their lives are compared to ours, what’s a decade or two more or less?”
Gillian shrugged. An unexpected side effect of the forced blood-bond, she reflected, was the improvement in her mental shield over the past few hours. She had a strong incentive to block random leaks, though she didn’t flatter herself that she’d be able to hold out if Camille really wanted to read her mind. Camille’s arguments had a skewed logic that Gillian had trouble refuting, yet she knew Roger and Claude would disagree. Why? Gillian couldn’t conjure up a reason. There was hardly a current shortage of human prey.
“I don’t make a habit of torturing them the way Neil did. Granted, that was unwise of him. We feel our victims’ emotions, so invoking pain is like torturing ourselves. But Neil was a little—strange. I never denied that.”
Surprised to hear Camille speaking of her brother calmly, Gillian took advantage of the moment. “Why was he that way?
“After he refused to bond with our advisor, he seemed to need stronger, harsher stimulation from his prey. I tried to steer him away from the worst excesses, and until the last couple of years, he listened to me.” A tinge of bitterness seeped into her voice. “But his behavior didn’t justify Roger killing him. Or our advisor turning her back on both of us. I’m not responsible for what Neil did. My victims, if they die, die happy.” Camille seemed to make a deliberate effort to lighten the mood. “You know that firsthand now. You felt it.”
Gillian’s stomach cramped at the memory. Yes, Camille had given that man ecstasy his normal life would never have held. Gillian yearned to plunge into that flood again. She made no attempt to hide her desire from Camille.
Camille’s amusement rippled the air in the car. “I know what you want. Maybe if you behave yourself, you’ll get it soon. Tell me about Roger’s pet.”
Confused by the apparent change of subject, Gillian described Britt’s physical appearance. “And she isn’t afraid of us. She enjoys giving to him.”
“That attracts you, doesn’t it? How would you like to have her?”
Gillian quivered with excitement at the expression of this forbidden desire. “That would be trespassing. She belongs to Roger.”
“You told me she offered herself to you. That negates his right to forbid the act.”
Gillian’s newborn lust warred with the remnants of her lifelong training. “Lord Volnar said—”
“Forget about his decrees!” A flare of anger from Camille stung Gillian like a slap on the cheek. “You are my child now. You live by my rules.”
Her child? The words lanced through Gillian like an icy blade. Yet Camille’s regime had its seductive aspects. Apparently these rules meant Gillian could do anything her appetite and curiosity impelled—as long as she didn’t anger Camille. The prospect held a dizzying blend of excitement and terror, like flying in a thunderstorm.
[You’ll never lack excitement with me, cub. All you have to do is break those rusty old chains.]
After they’d left the interstate for Route 50, Camille detoured off the freeway until she came across a picnic ground where she could park inconspicuously. The two of them washed up with handfuls of snow from under the leafless trees, then strolled on a carpet of brown pine needles. “Enjoy the exercise,” said Camille, “because we can’t linger very long. This car will be reported stolen. We need to find a place to hole up.”
“Where?”
“I’m heading back to Annapolis. By now I think we’ve teased Roger enough.”
“Teased?” Gillian plucked a twig from a low-hanging bough and twisted it in her fingers.
“Yes, why do you think I’ve been chasing all over the Maryland-D.C. area instead of confronting him straight out? I wanted to get him good and frustrated before closin
g in for the kill—so to speak. And I’ll bet keeping you just out of his reach has done a terrific job on him.” Camille grinned as if expecting Gillian to share her delight in the scheme.
In that instant Camille’s mind was open and unguarded. Gillian saw the truth—that Camille had incited the professor’s actions and planned all along to rescue Gillian. I’m a toy to her, a weapon to strike at my father! Gillian felt herself dissolving under the force of the shock.
“Stop that!” Camille’s nails, gouging her wrists, aborted Gillian’s involuntary change. “Yes, that was my original plan. But I didn’t know you then. Now I want to train you. We can have a wonderful time together.”
Hurt and anger at how she’d been used swamped Gillian’s fear of Camille. “Why would I want to do anything with you? Why should I ever let you touch my mind again?”
“Because you don’t have a choice—except to relax and enjoy it or fight and get hurt.” Camille brushed aside Gillian’s mental assault like a toddler’s tantrum. “Given an alternative, I’d rather not cause you pain. They condemned my brother to death, made my advisor renounce me as a lost cause, stole fourteen years of my life, and destroyed my chance of ever having a child. You can make up to me for some of that.”
Gillian felt that Camille was sincere, on one level. Yet the woman was holding something back. Between pleasure in the mentor role, lust for excitement, a hunger strangely intense for a mature vampire, and hatred of Roger, Camille’s mind was so clouded with static that Gillian couldn’t sift truth from lies.
“Let’s go.” Camille led Gillian back to the car, as if afraid her pupil would try to escape. “We’ve spent too long in one place. I hope you’re working up a hearty appetite, because tomorrow, if you behave yourself, I’m sending you to your first human—donor.”
She means victim. Her revenge on Roger will be to give Britt to me. And Britt is exactly the one I want!
Gillian’s head ached with confusion. The moment she’d decide to hate her self-appointed mentor, the woman would tantalize her with a promise that she couldn’t ignore. Camille subjected her to discomfort, uncertainty, and danger, yet the last couple of nights had held a seductive excitement, too. Beginning to wonder whether Camille lived in this haphazard style all the time, Gillian asked, “What do you normally do? As an occupation, that is?”
“You mean work?” Camille gave a harsh laugh.
“Yes. Roger is a psychiatrist, Claude is an actor, my—Juliette writes novels, and Lord Volnar spends his time trouble-shooting—is that the word?—for our people. Don’t you do anything in particular?”
With an exaggerated sigh, Camille said, “I can’t believe you’ve been corrupted by the human work ethic. Surely you didn’t get that from Volnar. I don’t need to work for an income. Over the decades, with my investments under various aliases, I’ve accumulated enough wealth to live comfortably. And when I can’t get at it, such as my present predicament, I can always take contributions from my victims. What else do they exist for?”
Gillian didn’t express her misgivings about the hazards of this lifestyle, since by now she knew what answer she’d get. The idea of wandering around with no fixed goal or regular avocation, though, sounded boring to her. The excitement of hunting could fill only so many hours per night.
Picking up that thought, Camille said, “There are other things we can do with unlimited leisure. After all this is settled with Roger, we’ll establish a permanent home, and you’ll find out what I mean.”
That idea wasn’t totally unattractive to Gillian. But she wanted no part of helping Camille settle with Roger.
When Camille finally stopped the car again, they were near Route 2, Ritchie Highway, north of Annapolis. Even in the predawn hours, traffic on the four-lane highway was constant. “This isn’t a good place to be in a stolen vehicle,” said Camille as she turned off the highway in search of a less traveled area. After a period of apparently aimless driving she found a forested stretch of road that seemed to satisfy her wish for isolation. Leaving the car, they hiked through the woods for a couple of hours.
Only once did Gillian venture to ask what they were waiting for. “Daylight,” Camille said. The tone didn’t encourage further questions. She wouldn’t allow Gillian to hunt. “I don’t want you to lose your edge.” The comment was a depressing reminder that Camille’s friendliness was a mask for the desire to shape Gillian into a weapon.
At seven a.m., both of them squinting in the sun, for they hadn’t had a chance to pick up dark glasses, Camille drove to a complex of drab buildings that sprawled beneath a self-storage billboard just off Route 2. Leaving Gillian in the car outside the gate, Camille rang the bell to summon the manager from his cottage at the entrance. Gillian watched her fill out a form and hand over cash.
Slipping into the driver’s seat a moment later, Camille said, “We now have a place to sleep for the day.”
“Here, in one of those—closets? Not a motel?”
“Too many people see us at motels,” Camille said, backing up to turn around. “Thanks to your misbehavior, we have to be more careful.”
Gillian understood that the new hiding place was partly designed as a punishment. “Why did you pay for it, if we’re only going to sneak in anyway?”
“So the man won’t rent it to someone else who might stumble on us, of course.” Camille parked the car on a side street about a block from the storage complex, in front of a used-car lot that was deserted and apparently closed.
“Didn’t he ask for identification when you signed the papers?” Since Camille carried no wallet, that request would be hard to answer.
“No, I pulled an Obi-wan Kenobi on him. Told him he didn’t need to see my identification.” Walking around to the trunk, Camille pulled out a rolled-up blanket. “Lucky this happens to be here. I wouldn’t enjoy lying on a bare floor.”
“Obi what?”
Camille arched her eyebrows. “Dark Powers, your education has been neglected! Volnar didn’t let you watch science fiction films, either? What did he think, that you would develop delusions of being a Wookie?”
“Pardon?”
“Next time we have access to a television, I’ll rent—” Camille broke off, staring at a police car that crawled along the narrow street. “Blast, we can’t vanish when he’s looking straight at us,” she muttered. “Perhaps he won’t stop.”
He did, however. The patrol car drew level with them and halted. The officer, a tall, wiry black man with a bushy moustache, walked to within a yard of Camille and said, “Ma’am, this car has been reported stolen. I’ll have to see your license and registration.”
“Why, I can’t imagine what you mean,” said Camille in a breathy voice. Her eyes wide in simulated fear, she continued, “There must be some kind of computer mix-up. Just a minute, and I’ll get my ID.”
When she walked to the driver’s door, the policeman followed, as Camille had doubtless planned. Edging out of the way, Gillian watched from the sidewalk. Instead of opening the car door, Camille leaned against it and waited for the policeman to approach. “Your license, ma’am,” he repeated.
She spread her hands in an appealing gesture. “Please, officer—” The words drew his eyes to hers. From that instant, he was lost. Unheeded, Gillian slid into Camille’s mind. The lust that stirred in the man when the hypnotic spell overcame him made Gillian salivate. When Camille’s teeth nipped his skin, his ecstatic convulsions rushed over Gillian like a gale-force wind. She doubled over, blinded and deafened by the sensations.
After the wave receded, she saw the man staring at Camille in a wide-eyed trance. Camille’s fingers fluttered like insect wings over his face. “That was exhausting. You’re very tired and not worried about anything. Get into your car, forget about me, and drive onto Route 2. You can’t keep your eyes open. Once you’re on the highway, you will fall asleep.”
The officer nodded thoughtfully, as if she’d proposed that he head to McDonald’s for a quick breakfast. A moment later, he was go
ne.
But he could be killed! Gillian knew better than to voice the protest. Camille didn’t care. That’s what she is hiding! She doesn’t care! Camille made light of the risks because, deep inside, she didn’t expect to survive this escapade. Sooner or later, she’d end up back in captivity—or dead, like Neil. Her mental barrier slammed shut before the two of them started walking away from the car, but Gillian knew she hadn’t imagined that revelation.
All the talk about building a new life together in a simulated mother-daughter relationship was only a fantasy. Camille might believe it herself when she said it. But a deeper layer of her mind was bent on cramming the maximum gratification into what she expected to be a brief period of freedom.
Gillian strove to shield her thoughts as they headed for the storage complex, their psychic veils in place. If the manager chanced to peer out of his office, he wouldn’t notice them strolling through the open gate and slipping under the barrier that limited access for cars. Sun glared on the pavement and the cinderblock rows of sheds. Camille led the way to the one she had claimed. Gillian scanned the new lair dispiritedly as they closed the door to shut out the day.
Thirsty, frustrated, unbathed, and frightened, she didn’t relish sleeping in a five-by-eight-by-eight-foot cube on cold concrete. They had to brush away cobwebs before spreading the blanket. “If you please me tonight,” Camille murmured as she lay down on her half, “tomorrow will be entirely different.”
Gillian curled up on her side as far from the woman as possible. Fleetingly, she thought of escaping while Camille slept. But she knew the futility of that notion. Because of their bond, if Gillian ran away, if she so much as called Roger again, Camille would be instantly alerted.
Or maybe not. Gillian forced herself to remain half-awake while Camille succumbed to fatigue and fell into suspended animation. Slowly Gillian stood up, afraid to twitch a corner of the blanket, much less make noise. She clung to the memory of her exercise with Britt, imitating the human female’s mental shield. Surely as a vampire, Gillian thought, she herself could block her thoughts better than an ephemeral. She visualized a smooth metal shell around her mind, as impregnable as a bomb-proof vault. Not a single wisp of thought must leak out.
Child of Twilight Page 28
