"But I didn't start feeling other people's emotions intensely-or imagining them-until I was about fourteen. It came on gradually."

"Okay, that's the normal age for it. And then we develop the need to absorb life-force from ephemerals by, you might say, soaking up strong emotion. That happens before the bloodl.u.s.t hits. How about you?"

d.a.m.n, how does she do that?With Sylvia's uncanny guesses, it was all too easy to forget that most of what they were discussing had to be pure fantasy. "Soaking up strong emotion-interesting way to put it. Yes, I did-still do-have experiences like that. It started with girls, when I began dating."

"No surprise there," she said.

"I've never had s.e.xual intercourse." The embarra.s.sment he felt at confessing that lack surprised him. "At that age I was capable of e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n, but good Catholic boys didn't 'go all the way' with nice girls. And the brothers in charge of my prep school made sure we didn't have much chance to meet the other kind."

Sylvia shook her head. "A vampire at a parochial school-I'm having a lot of trouble with that picture. So if you didn't go all the way, what did you do?"

Roger smiled reminiscently. "Nice girls, under the right conditions, could indulge in heavy petting-a concept you're probably too young to remember."

"I've heard of it. I wasn't allowed to a.s.sociate with humans until my teens, but I'm notthatout of touch with their culture."

"It happened the first time at one of those ghastly dances they arranged for us...."

Roger had been fifteen. He'd felt no urge to taste the girl's blood, but neither had he felt a drive toward the acts the older boys bragged about.

He'd been at a dance hosted by the girls' finishing school down the road. Too young and introverted to have a date of his own, Roger had gone stag, like most of the boys in his grade. If the headmaster hadn't required all the students to attend the dance, as part of their education in the social graces, Roger would have stayed away. Already his empathic powers had developed enough that crowds made him uncomfortable. Suf-fering through the evening in the stuffy room, redolent of nervous sweat and heavy cologne, he took his turn at dancing with a succession of unattached young ladies.

Eventually he found himself waltzing with a pet.i.te brunette who wore less perfume than the others and hadn't nibbled on the garlic- flavored salami hors-d'oeuvres whose odor nauseated him. By that time, after ten, he began to feel downright sick from the crowding and the smells. Sensing emotions was still new to him, and he had none of the precarious control he'd later developed. The barrage of alien pa.s.sions sometimes made him suspect he was losing his mind. After his parents' response to his other odd perceptions, he knew better than to mention this new problem.

He persuaded his dancing partner to step outside for a few minutes of fresh air. Sensing the blend of amus.e.m.e.nt and nervousness in her, he guessed, from what he'd overheard from his more experienced peers, that she suspected him of ulterior motives. More from curiosity than l.u.s.t, he'd kissed her. The memory of her mint-flavored lips, the fragrance of her corsage, and the silken fabric of her powder-blue evening gown came vividly back to him.

He'd drawn back from the kiss to gaze into her eyes, half expecting her to retreat in alarm or indignation. Instead, she stared dreamily at him for a full minute-and then, standing on tiptoe, wrapped her arms around his neck to pull his face down to hers.

Suddenly her arousal flooded over him.So this is what the fellows were talking about! Instinct guided his hands over her body, tracing a fiery path from one erogenous zone to the next, guided by her burgeoning excitement. His lips never left hers while his fingers discovered the core of her feminine heat. His whole being echoed the cataclysmic vibrations of her climax.

As soon as they caught their breath, he escorted her inside and handed her over to another partner. The girl didn't speak to Roger, behaving as if she were floating in a daze. He found, to his surprise, that the throng around him had become bearable. He felt refreshed, energized. Even if he had been more outgoing, he would have known better than to tell any of his cla.s.smates about the experience. Upon reflection, he recognized that it differed from the s.e.xual exploits the other boys reveled in trading at their locker- room bull sessions....

After he told Sylvia about this incident, she said, "With all that going on, you didn't have a clue that you weren't an ordinary teenager?"

"Don't you understand?" Given her obtuseness about so many everyday facets of social interaction, he could halfway believe she wasn't human, after all. "I couldn't tell anyone about those incidents, so I had no reality test. For all I knew, I was losing my mind.

That fear, in fact, was what first got me interested in psychology."

"So what about drinking blood? I'd have expected you to feel that need within a year or two."

"No, it didn't happen until my early twenties, during my residency at Ma.s.s General." Even now, the memory made his stomach knot with anxiety. "It was-terrible. I denied the urge as long as possible, tried to convince myself it was anything but-what it was. I stuffed myself with raw meat, bone marrow, anything to stifle that craving for-whatever."

Sylvia stared at him, wide-eyed. "I can't imagine how awful that must have been. I always knew what I was, and when my bloodl.u.s.t started, it meant I was growing up."

Recalling the turmoil he'd suffered, Roger almost wished he could share her fantasy of vampirism.

"About the same time, I lost the capacity for-s.e.xual release. Not that I noticed it right away, being an exhausted, overworked resident-" He smiled grimly. "But when I finally re-alized I had become inexplicably and permanently impotent-"

"Now, that part I can't understand at all. I mean, ephemerals have to settle for short, localized climaxes. Why would you want to be limited that way? For us, it's so muchmore."

Her words roused an unwelcome heat in the pit of his sto-mach. He poured himself a fresh gla.s.s of wine and gulped half of it at once. "Well, I didn't know about the-compensations-at the time. And I can't share your belief that it's all perfectly natural."

"It's natural for us. You aren't some kind of depraved pervert; you're just taking what you need. As for the human-type s.e.x, have you missed it?"

"Well-" He had to concede that the rush he enjoyed when he tasted the blood of a properly stimulated victim far surpa.s.sed his memory of masturbating to climax. On the other hand, how well could he rely on that memory?

"See what I mean?" She raised her gla.s.s with a triumphant flourish. "Why do you keep fighting your nature, trying to set new records on how long you can go without? You're driving yourself crazy for nothing. After all, ephemerals were made to feed us.

Why else would they taste so delicious?"

The appeas.e.m.e.nt of Sylvia's voracious appet.i.te left many hours unaccounted for, hours spent hiking through the woods or driving up the coast to walk over deserted seaside beaches at midnight. They spent one weekend exploring rural Maine, searching, as Sylvia put it, "for Stephen King landmarks. Wouldn't it be neat to stumble across 'Salem's Lot?"

"No, thank you," Roger said. "I read that book, too-the vampires were cremateden ma.s.se , remember?"

"In real life we know better than to make ourselves that conspicuous."

"Real life?" He arched a skeptical eyebrow at her. "Odd choice of phrase. Stipulating it's true, for the sake of argument, where do vampires congregate in real life, if not in small New England towns?"

"Mostly we don't. Congregate, that is. We're solitary predators. Give up, Roger, I'm not allowed to talk about it." Sylvia consistently met Roger's questions with similar non-answers or light retorts. He clung to the a.s.sumption that her unwillingness to provide him with specific data masked the fact that no real data existed.

"Introduce me to your former friend-the other vampire you claim is haunting Boston," he challenged her on one occasion.

Sylvia immediately turned serious. "You don't want to meet him. I wasn't lying when I said he'd committed those murders. He's an outlaw." Not another word would she volunteer. Roger wished he could persuade her to speak more freely; suppose she actually did know the killer's ident.i.ty, even if she harbored delusions about his nature?But if I got a name from her, how could I explain it to O'Toole? First things first; get the information, stop the slaughter, and then figure out how to handle the detective.

The only other source of tension between them was Sylvia's unfulfilled wish to taste Roger's blood. Though she didn't ask outright, he knew she wanted it. She had allowed him to drink from her, enjoyed it. Why couldn't he reciprocate? He saw the silent question in her eyes and had no answer for it, even in his own mind. He knew only that the fathomless need he sensed in her frightened him; he felt if she opened his veins, she would drain his life away.

A new shock hit him the night she talked him into experimenting with his psychic powers. "There's so much more you should be able to do," she said, curled up next to him on her living room couch. "Reading emotions and controlling people's minds is just the beginning."

"What do you have in mind?" said Roger, stroking Katrina, who sprawled limply across his knees. "Telekinesis? Levitation?

Walking through walls?"

"Go ahead, laugh it up," she said. "I want to teach you how to-I guess you'd say, create a psychic disguise. It's an extension of the mind-control you've mastered on your own. Projecting an illusion can be not only useful but fun. And since you do have the hypnotic talent, you should be able to pick this up."

"How do you mean? Like a hologram?"

"No, no, I mean makingyourself look different." She stood up, facing Roger. "It's a self-protective technique, like camou-flage. I can make people see me as a wolf, a panther-" she smiled sardonically-"even a bat. But the easiest is what you might call psychic invisibility." Her outline blurred. She rippled like an image on water and vanished.

Chapter 5

JESUS, MARY, and Joseph! She disappeared into thin air!Roger almost crossed himself before he remembered that would upset Sylvia.This can't be literally supernatural, but it's as close as I ever want to get.

He watched in stunned silence until she reappeared. "Good G.o.d-how in the name of all that's holy-?"

He felt her delight in his astonishment. "I just made you see me differently. You should be able to handle that-go ahead, try. I'd love to see what you're capable of." She lifted the cat out of his lap.

Is that why the legends say vampires can dissolve into mist?"How?"

With a frown Sylvia said, "I don't know how to teach you, not the way my advisor taught me. If we were bonded-" She stood up. "You need feedback from another person. You wouldn't see your own reflection fade from the mirror." For a moment her eyes clouded. "I used to, but I got over that. Now all that's left is the fear of crosses."

When she beckoned him to stand opposite her, he complied. "Look into my eyes, Roger. I'll be your mirror. Try to feel what I feel when I do it." She faded into transparency again. Now that Roger was expecting the illusion, he could almost penetrate it; a faint outline of her form teased his vision. Sylvia shimmered back into view and said, "Now you."

He imagined weaving a curtain around himself to deflect rays of light, shaping a pocket of opacity to veil himself from her eyes. He fixed his gaze on those red-gleaming eyes, seeking confirmation of his skill. For a second he fell into a whirlpool of double vision, viewing Sylvia's half-naked body, outlined by the glow of her aura, yet simultaneously seeing himself through her eyes, his body enveloped in shadow. His eyes smoldered back at hers.

"Yes-yes!" she whispered. "Oh, Roger, that's outstanding for a first try." She groped for his hand. When their fingers brushed, he felt the illusion dissolve.

He clutched her fingers like a drowning man. "Thank you-I think. If I really did what you claim you saw. As you said, I can't see myself vanish." When the initial shock faded, he flashed on an image of the crowd cheering for the nude Emperor's "new clothes."

"For all I know, you're convincing me I can do this for your own purposes."

"Oh, come on, Roger! Why would I lie? What possible rea-son could I have for working a scam on you?"

True, he couldn't think of a plausible motive. She had plenty of money and didn't need anything from him. "All right, maybe there's something to all this. Maybe we share some obscure con-genital syndrome. We might even be distantly related."

She laughed at his desperate attempt to cling to his skepti-cism. "I keep telling you, we are. But not the way you think." She let go of his hand and rearranged her clothes. "That's kind of draining the first time, isn't it? If you've worked up an appet.i.te, let's get out there and score."

Roger was surprised and not quite pleased to find that the trick came easily to him. His hypothetical kinship with Sylvia cast doubt on what he'd always considered his unpardonable guilt. Could a spider be d.a.m.ned for trapping flies? A cat for devouring mice?

So should I adopt Sylvia's notion that I'm a superior being, and humanity is my lawful prey? This is progress?Only natural that he half wanted to believe her-fantasies of glamorous origins, indulged in by most children, were especially common among adoptees. As a Freudian, he should be particularly aware of that tendency. He needed expert help, and not from a medical expert.

From the Church.

He wouldn't consider, however, unfolding the truth to his own parish priest. The seal of confession would prevent the pastor from revealing Roger's secret and compel him to act as if he'd forgotten it, but nothing could keep him from viewing Roger differently thereafter. On the other hand, the idea of picking a priest at random from the phone book repelled Roger. A quick scan through his mental card file turned up a suitable confessor. Some months back, he had attended a weekend psychiatric conference in Providence. While there, he'd heard Ma.s.s at a small nineteenth-century church near Brown Uni-versity. The pastor, an older man near retirement, had made a favorable impression on him.Telephoning the Providence parish long distance, Roger arranged a Sat.u.r.day afternoon appointment. Enduring the loss of half a day's sleep and a long drive in daylight would be worthwhile if he got some answers.

ARRIVING IN Providence with a pounding headache from the sun, Roger walked for a few minutes under the shade of the hundred-year-old oaks in the small churchyard, contemplating sculpted cherubs and lilies on headstones, postponing the moment of confrontation. The afternoon sun made him over-heated in the coat and tie he wore to underline his solidly professional status. The discomfort drove him into the cool dimness of the church. Bas-reliefs of the Stations of the Cross lined the side walls, while up front a life-size grouping of the Holy Family brooded over a bank of votive candles. Roger lit one on principle, though the only pet.i.tion that came to mind was the missal's prayer for examination of conscience.

I confess myself in the dark as to my own failings; my pa.s.sions blind me, self-love flatters me, presumption deludes me ...

remove every veil that hides my sins from me, that I may be no longer a secret to myself.

Kneeling at the altar rail, he heard the creak of a side door and the pad of feet on the carpet. He sprang up to face the priest.

"Dr. Darvell?" The man was slightly plump, with a fringe of sandy-gray hair. "I'm Father Hale. Shall we go into my office?"

Too late to back out now.

"You don't use the old-fashioned confessional?" Roger glanced at the carved mahogany doors to one side of the nave.

"Sometimes those little boxes could be a device for evasion, I'm afraid," said Father Hale, leading the way through a dusty back hall to the office. His blue eyes flashed a challenge at Roger. "Do you think I'm wrong?"

"I think you're all too right." He followed the priest into a room dominated by a wide desk that barely left s.p.a.ce enough to navigate between bookshelves and overstuffed chairs. Father Hale tugged aprie-dieu from a corner and placed it in the one clear spot on the braid rug.

Roger knelt stiffly upright as the priest donned his stole, murmuring the familiar prayer. "Shall we begin, my son?"

No escape-no barriers.Roger recited the customary opening phrases and ground to a halt.

"Please go on," Father Hale softly prompted. "You made your last confession less than two weeks ago, yet today you come here, to a parish where you're unknown. There must be a particular reason. What is it?"

Unable to think of any smooth lead-in to his revelation, Roger blurted out, "Father, I drink human blood." For a few seconds he felt dizzy with relief at getting the words spoken.

Aside from an acceleration in his heartbeat, the priest showed no reaction. His face remained expressionless. The man was as good at his job as Roger had hoped. "My son, are you confessing to murder?"

"No, I don't kill."

"What, then? Perversion?"

"I'm not sure. I thought so at first, but now I'm reconsidering." With the critical words spoken, Roger found he had no further trouble discussing his problem. "Living on blood is abnormal for human beings. Suppose I'm not human?"

Father Hale gave a single start of astonishment, instantly suppressed. "What else could you be?"

"Could you accept the possibility of another intelligent species-humanoid but not truly human-created to feed on blood?" "If they existed, wouldn't we know about them?"

"Not if they carefully concealed themselves, as they certainly would." Noting the priest's continued skepticism, Roger added in a more insistent tone, "Father, I've met one. She claims that she isn't human-and she believes I belong to her species."

After a moment of thoughtful silence, the priest said, "You're a physician. If someone came to you with a story like this, what would your scientific training tell you?"

"This woman has shown me-things-that suggest she may be telling the truth. And it's not scientific to ignore the evidence of one's senses."

Father Hale shifted uneasily in his chair. "I can see you believe this. I haven't experienced your 'evidence,' though. Can you give me any reason to believe?"

Roger bowed his head on his hands. How could he demonstrate his paranormal talents in any way that would convince a skeptical observer? Any use of hypnosis would be recognized as just that-and hypnotic illusion proved nothing. He looked up to meet the priest's eyes. How easy it would be to bend Father Hale's will, force him to believe. An act that would subvert the whole purpose of making this confession. "No, I can't," Roger said. "I only know that I'm going out of my mind, living a lie, not sure what I am."

"Are you prepared to give up consuming blood?"

"Don't you understand what I'm getting at?" Roger snarled. "I can't give it up. I'm asking you to show me how to live with it."

With no trace of fear, only sorrow, the priest said, "You know I can't absolve you of a sin you don't repent and have no intention of stopping. When was the last time you-?"

"Sunday night." The question reminded him of his growing hunger, which would drive him to satisfy it before the weekend was out.I was tapering off, before. Why is it getting worse now?

"And you perform this act frequently?" To Roger's silent acknowledgement, he continued, "For how long? How many years?"

"Almost twenty," said Roger.

"You see what I mean, my son? If you remain willfully incorrigible-"

Roger got wearily to his feet. "Then what do you advise me to do about it?"