Sorcerer's Luck (9 page)

“Let me rub them,” I said. “You look so uncomfortable.”

“Thanks. I am.”

I dug into his shoulders in a real massage, and he sighed, pleased. I kept it up, working
on his neck, too, until I felt the tendons and muscles relax under my fingers.
He was paying me to take care of him, I figured, during this part of the month.
I was glad I could do something to earn the money. Now and then I felt a wisp
of the élan he was gathering come my way. I never would have stolen from him,
but I saw nothing wrong with capturing the stray bits and fragments that hung
loose in the air behind him. He never noticed.

Tor watched the moon all evening. He staggered into his room at ten o'clock to go to bed.
He slept late the next morning, staggering out again just as I got home from
class. He fried up a whole pound of bacon. Although he offered me some, I
turned it down, and he ate the entire pound, nothing else, just the bacon. In
the afternoon, he went to the local grocery store and came back with bunches of
greens and a whole salmon. He unwrapped the fish, cut it up, and stowed it in
the little refrigerator in his bathroom.

“I hate having to chew the plastic wrap off,” he told me. “It tastes really bad.”

“I can believe it,” I said. “By the way, you look exhausted.”

“I am.” He began to pluck at the fabric of his shirt as if it itched wherever it touched
him. “You'd better lock me in now.” He opened the door. “See you in three days.
Whatever you do, don't let me out unless the place is on fire. Okay?”

“I promise. Look, I was thinking of going back to campus for a figure drawing session.
They're informal, I don't have to go, but I hate to miss them. Would that be
okay?”

“As long as you're back before dark, sure. After that, no, don't leave me.” His voice
dropped. “Please?”

“Don't worry. I'll stay here till you change back.”

He stepped in and shut the door. I locked it with the key, slid the deadbolt, and put on
the safety chain. Despite his permission, I wondered if I should leave. After
double-checking everything that could possibly start a fire, I decided that I
could. He had everything he needed.

I ended up leaving the drawing session early. Since I had to stay in the flat for a couple
of days, I needed to stockpile more élan. I went to the mall, which at the
dinner hour was half-empty. I only managed to steal a few drips and drabs from
a gaggle of teen-age girls who suddenly stopped right in front of me to squeal
at some teen boys they knew. I might have gone elsewhere to hunt, but I had to
keep track of time.

I returned to the house just at sunset, when there was plenty of twilight left in the sky.
I drove into the garage, but before I shut the door I walked back outside and
looked to the east. The full moon hung over the eastern hills like a crown of
silver light. When I turned to the west, I could see a few bright stars above
the sun's last glow. Beautiful, calm, peaceful—the last time I'd ever use those
words to describe the full moon night.

As soon as I got upstairs, I heard the bjarki moaning, a desperate little sound, moaning
and snuffling at the door of the master suite. I walked a few steps into the
hallway. The bjarki heard my footsteps and moaned even louder, begging,
heart-broken. He wanted to run, he longed for the forest, he ached to run free—I
felt that I could hear his thoughts through those animal sounds. He threw
himself against the door so hard that the safety chain rattled.

“No,” I said. “You can't come out. You don't dare come out. That's why I'm here, to
keep you in. Remember?”

Silence—for a minute or two. He threw himself against the door again, then growled. He
chuffed, a weird breathy sound, then roared and grumbled.

“No! You have to stay in there, Tor! Eat some of the fish. You'll feel better with
something to gnaw.”

The silence lasted for maybe twenty minutes that time. I'd just heated myself some
leftovers in the microwave when I heard him first growl, then roar, a throaty,
breathy sound, different from a lion's roar though just as loud. No wonder he
needed to own the entire building. Downstairs neighbors would have meant big
trouble. I picked up a sketchbook and started a page for questions to ask Tor
once he was himself again. First question: does it make you feel better or
worse if I stand outside the door and talk to you?

The growling and roaring continued at intervals all night long. Even though my room
was on the other side of the flat, I could hear him banging on the door. I
could only hope that he wasn't strong enough to knock it down, locks or no
locks. He'd stay quiet for maybe half an hour, long enough for me to fall
asleep. He'd start in again, and I'd wake up. Around dawn I gave up. I
staggered out of bed and went into the kitchen to brew some strong coffee.

As I watched it drip into the carafe, I realized the truth of my situation. The
exact same ordeal would recur every month. I was going to earn every penny of
my salary—if I could even keep the job. For those of us afflicted with
vampirism, exhaustion is dangerous. We can't regenerate our vital forces just
by catching up on a few hours' sleep. My legs ached from hip to ankle. My hands
hurt every time I picked up an object. Cold sweat trickled down my back.

I nearly cried. For the first time in my life I had comfort, support, everything I
needed, and I might have to throw it all away because the job could kill me.
I'd promised him I'd stay for the full three nights of his change. The agony I
heard in his raw animal sounds made me determined to keep that promise, too,
which meant I couldn't even go out and try to steal energy from the healthy.
That morning I found myself hating healthy people, the kind of deep toxic
hatred that springs from envy. It would poison me, I knew, if I let it, even
though it would make what I needed to do easier.

Once the moon started to wane and I could leave the flat, I'd have to turn into a
dedicated hunter, go around looking for crowds and innocent victims, taking a
slurp here, a smidgen there, stealing mouthfuls of other people's lives in a
desperate attempt to replace what I'd lost. If I hated them, I could steal
without the ache in my conscience—if I even had enough energy left to go
hunting. Since I'd never been so close to meltdown before, I had no way of
knowing if I would or not.

Maybe it would be better, I figured, to let the disease take its course, to let myself
run down and die like a watch that never will keep the right time. Just as I
had that thought, Tor began to growl and moan. I could hear him throwing
himself against the door of his lair.

The day got even worse when I happened to look at the headboard of my bed and see that the
carved moon had become full. I wandered over and checked the writing desk. More
changes: the green lion had finished eating the sun and turned into a red lion.
He looked sick, too, and all the butterflies hovered closer as if they were
waiting to attack his corpse. The psychic atmosphere, as Tor had called it, in
the building was as sick as I was. I raised the lid and saw that the zodiacal
sun had disappeared. In its place was a bear's head in profile. Its nose
pointed to the sign of Leo.

The next day was different though no better. I did get enough sleep, because the bjarki
fell completely silent. When I woke, I was no longer sweating, though my legs
ached so badly that I risked taking a couple of ibuprofen. I had no idea if
painkillers would make my élan shortage worse or better. They did ease the
ache. Once I realized, however, that Tor had been quiet for hours, I began to
worry that he was dead or seriously ill. I spent a lot of time sitting outside
the door of his lair and listening for the sound of him moving around, or
snoring, or even just plain breathing.

I heard nothing until the moon rose again, an hour or so after sunset. The bjarki began
to roar and growl, maybe in greeting, maybe in pain—I could only hope it was
the former. To get away from the sound, I limped outside and looked at the
rising moon. Lop-sided, for sure, no longer perfectly full. One more night, I
told myself. Just one more night. When I opened the door to go back in, pain
stabbed through my fingers.

I returned to the upstairs flat and walked down the hall to listen at the door. The
howling had stopped. I heard claws clicking as the bjarki paced back and forth.
Now and then he whimpered or chuffed. I went back to the living room and
flopped down on the leather couch. Tired, so tired—I held out my hands and saw
that my knuckles were beginning to redden and swell. My vital forces had
started their fall toward the danger point. My father had warned me what to
expect, what to watch out for.

Did I really want to die? No. Death terrified me, that long night with no sunrise. I
loved being alive, loved making art, seeing art, going for long walks, being
with my friends, hearing music. But did I want to stay a predator, roaming
around hungry, always on the look-out for someone I could tap for a little bit
of that precious élan vital? What if I succumbed one day and took so much life
force that I left someone crippled, half-alive, even dead? The thought made me
tremble and sweat in terror. No, never, not that!

I could think of no solution, none. I staggered into the bedroom and lay down for a
nap. The bjarki began to roar and growl. I got up and turned on the floor lamp,
just because I no longer wanted to lie in the dark. I was afraid to look at the
writing desk. Eventually the bjarki quieted. I took off my shoes and bra and
lay down, still dressed in shorts and a T-shirt, just in case something awful
happened and I had to spring into action. After a lot of tossing and turning, I
fell asleep.

I woke late the next morning to a silent flat. I got up and hurried out to the living room.
I could hear a strange whispery sound, a slight humming overhead. Hell! I
thought. What's happening now? When I realized I was hearing water in the
pipes, I started to laugh. Tor had to be taking a shower, and that meant the
bjarki had changed back. I fished the keys to the lair out of my backpack.

I ran down the hall to his door and took off the safety chain, then hesitated. Possibly
the bjarki could use a paw to turn on the water in order to fool me. The sound
of the plumbing stopped. I heard a different sound, a human voice singing bits
and pieces of songs, opera arias maybe, some kind of classical music, in a
strong tenor.

“Tor?” I called out.

“I'm back. You can open up.”

His voice sounded vibrant, more forceful than I'd ever heard it. I figured he felt
relieved at having the change over for another month. My red and swollen hands
struggled with the key, but I finally unlocked the door, opened it, and looked
in—he was wearing only a pair of jeans and holding a T-shirt in one hand. The
room smelled like wet fur and fish scraps.

“God, the fug!” I said. “You could open a window.”

“Good idea.” He grinned at me and tossed the T-shirt onto one of the chairs.

I watched him stride to the window. His muscled back glistened with damp from the shower.
I realized that I was trembling, not from the sight, nice though it was, but
from the feel of life force in the air. Energy poured out of him and swirled
around the room. I took a few steps in before I even realized that I'd moved. Tor
flung up the window and stood for a moment breathing in the fresh air. As it
flowed inside, it carried a waft of his excess élan right to me. I breathed
deep, soaked it up, walked in a little farther, felt it pour over me. I gasped
and pulled it into my aching body and soul.

Tor turned around. I loved the way he looked at me, desire as pure as the life force
swirling around us both.

“Maya,” he said, “you'd better leave the room. I uh—”

I grabbed the hem of my shirt, pulled it over my head and off. My fingers no longer hurt.
He stared wide-eyed at my breasts. I felt my nipples respond.

“You what?” I dropped the shirt onto the floor and began to unzip my shorts.

He strode over, caught me by the shoulders, and kissed me open-mouthed. The feel of his
élan, life flowing, life restoring—I soaked it in. I'd never taken so much and
so freely from anyone, but he was stripping off all the extra energy he'd
gathered to make the shape-change. He was throwing away what I needed to live.
I sopped it up, reveled in it, and wanted more.

“Let's go to your room.” His voice shook. “There's animal hair all over the bed in this
one.”

“I don't care.” I let the shorts drop to the floor. “I don't want to waste any—oh wait,
I mean.”

Judging by the way he kissed me, I doubt if he even noticed my slip-up. I stepped free of
my shorts, then reached down to unzip his jeans. They slid down as he walked me
backward to the bed. With one hand he pulled off the blanket to expose clean
sheets. We fell on the bed together, rolled over each other, clasped in each
other's arms. With every kiss he gave me, every caress, he shed the excess life
force.

I sobbed in his arms with excitement. Ecstasy overwhelmed me from the feast, the abundance
of his cast-off élan, more than I'd ever dared to take, more than I could even
absorb. Like waves the raw pleasures of feeding flowed over me.

The orgasm was just a bonus.

He never cried out, but I felt his climax. He rested for a moment, then rolled off to
lie on his side next to me. With his free arm he pulled me close. I cuddled up
to him and listened to his heart pounding until at last it slowed into a normal
rhythm. He kissed me on the forehead and smiled at me.

“I hope you realize what this means,” he said.

“Umm? What?”

“You've just become my mate. I hope you don't have another boyfriend somewhere.”