He shrugs. “I have friends in high places.” He looks over my shoulder. “Speaking of which, where's your friend Michael? I thought he was bringing you home."
I hesitate. What explanation can I give for being alone?
But he doesn't give me the chance to come up with anything. He jumps right in, giving me a conspiratorial wink. “I suspected you hadn't called him."
His smugness is annoying.
"Oh? How do you know I didn't call him? He could be inside, right now, fixing me lunch."
Those feather-like laugh lines I noticed in the hospital crinkle around the Ray Bans. “Is he?"
Well, no. But I'm not telling Dr. Avery that. And how the hell does he know I didn't call Michael, anyway?
"I didn't think so,” he responds. “Calling that cab to pick you up gave it away."
My jaw sags a little. Had I spoken out loud?
"No,” he answers.
That's it. This is getting creepy. “Okay.” I put steel in my voice. “Are you psychic? Is this some kind of trick?"
He puts a hand on my elbow and steers me toward my gate. “Invite me inside,” he says. “And I'll answer all your questions."
I pull away. “I don't think so.” I don't invite strange men into my home, and this guy is even stranger than most. I have no intention of being alone with him, doctor or no.
Dr. Avery removes his sunglasses. His eyes lock me in their gaze. “I won't hurt you, Anna,” he says softly. “In fact, I can help you.
You have a lot of questions about what happened to you with Donaldson. I have the answers."
His voice, velvet-edged and insistent, sends a ripple of tranquil acceptance through me. I know with absolute certainty that he won't hurt me. Unhesitatingly, I lead the way to the door and unlock it, holding it open for him to pass through. “Welcome to my home."
As Dr. Avery takes a seat on the couch, he grins up at me and says again, “I really do love your home. I mean it, this is a great place."
But I'm not going to be sidetracked. Now that we're inside, that unshakable confidence I felt just a moment before melts away. I perch myself on the edge of an overstuffed chair facing him. “Now what do you have to tell me about Donaldson?"
As soon as I say it, a primitive warning resonates in my brain. What could he possibly know about Donaldson? Unless he's gotten more of those tests back and—
"No, no, it's nothing medical."
He's done it again. I launch myself up and at him, seething with mounting rage. “Okay, that's it. How are you doing that? It's not funny, it's not clever, and it's really pissing me off."
My outburst doesn't faze him. He crosses one tanned leg over the other and looks right at me.
Try it yourself.
The voice comes out of nowhere. Or rather, it comes from inside my head.
See? The voice continues. Now try saying something to me.
"What the hell do you mean?"
No. Dr. Avery's brow wrinkles slightly, as though he's concentrating harder. Don't answer with your voice. Use your mind.
Are you nuts?
He beams. Now that wasn't hard, was it?
I sink back into the armchair, suddenly woozy with surprise and dread. Did I really do that? Project my thoughts to him?
Of course you did, Dr. Avery responds, his face lit up like a child's at Christmas. There's pride and delight and wonder all mingled together. You are a quick study. I knew it the moment I saw you at the hospital.
Saw what at the hospital?
I catch him before he can respond in that eerie telepathic way. I hold up a hand and insist grimly, “No. Talk to me. The normal way. This is creeping me out."
A shadow of disappointment replaces the glow on his face. “I thought you'd be at least a little pleased to know how well you're progressing. Most don't come this far this fast."
"Most what?"
He gives me a sideways glance. “Come on. You must know what you're becoming."
The hair on the back of my neck is rising, along with goose bumps the size of marshmallows on my arms. “What I'm becoming?"
He thinks, You're beginning to sound like a parrot.
My God, how do I know that?
Out loud, he's saying, “I knew you'd have questions about Donaldson, but I thought they'd be along the ‘what can I expect and how do I handle it’ line."
"Handle what?"
It seems to finally dawn on Avery that we're not on the same page. Maybe he's not as good at the mind reading thing as he thinks.
Oh, but I am usually, comes the immediate reply. I don't understand.
He doesn't understand?
I'm on my feet again, pacing in front of him like a mad woman. “Stop doing that. Don't insinuate yourself into my head. Listen to me. What are you? What am I ‘becoming?’ What does this have to do with Donaldson? God, I feel like I'm going crazy here."
He hesitates just a second, pursing his lips at me. Then he's on his feet, too. He takes my hand and leads me over to a mirror on the wall beside the door. “Look at me, Anna."
Half afraid, I nevertheless raise my eyes to the glass. I'm aware of the touch of his hand, feel the nearness of his body next to mine.
But he casts no reflection. None. And my own image is hazy and indistinct, fading more even as I watch.
I jump back, heart pounding so hard in my chest, I'm afraid it will burst. “This can't be happening."
Why do you doubt it?
"Stop it.” Shock quickly gives way to rage. I fling open the front door. “Get out. I don't want you in my house any longer."
But he doesn't move. He looks at me with sad, compassion filled eyes. “I can't do that, Anna. You need me. And truth be told, I need you, too. There's something you must do before you join the family."
Family? I'm afraid to think what family that would be.
"The only family you have,” Avery answers without prompting. “Now that you are Vampire."
Chapter Eight
Vampire?
The word hangs in the air between us, black and ominous as a storm cloud. We stare at each other, not moving. I can scarcely breathe. Avery reaches past me and closes the front door. The simple action breaks the impasse and snaps me back. But the rage is gone.
"What are you talking about?"
He gestures to the living room. “Do you want to sit down?"
At least he's talking and not performing that stupid mind trick. I nod and follow him to the couch. We take seats at opposite ends, putting as much distance as possible between us. I push myself to the edge, the urge to flee strong. “Tell me."
"Where do you want me to start?"
I press my hands to my head. “At the beginning, I guess. With Donaldson."
"Do you remember any of it?” But he scans my face and answers on his own. “You do. The images are coming back. The feelings.
It's frightening you because you realize you were a participant, not a victim. That's all right. It's natural."
"Natural?” The word explodes out of me. “There is nothing natural about this. I was fighting Donaldson and suddenly I wasn't.
God, I actually responded to him—or rather my body did. I had no control. I tasted his blood and—"
The mental picture of Donaldson on top of me, the memory of the taste of his blood in my mouth, of the way I lapped at it and craved it and couldn't get enough, puts a stop to my diatribe. “That's it, isn't it?” I seek affirmation in Dr. Avery's face and find it. “I drank his blood, and he drank mine. God, I thought that was an old wive's tale."