How long have you been a vampire?
Technically since birth, because I am a human-vampire hybrid, not a demon-possessed walking corpse as in those absurd folk legends. In a sense, however, I became a vampire when I learned my true nature and origin at the age of forty. Previously, I thought I was afflicted with an aberrant fetish for blood-drinking—a mutant of some sort, perhaps, because of my psychic talents, but essentially an ordinary man.
Do you drink blood or are you a psychic vampire?
Mainly blood, but a bit of both. The bulk of our nourishment consists of animal blood and occasionally milk. (After all, that’s a bodily fluid too.) We need human blood to thrive, however, although the amounts aren’t large, and it’s the emotional energy carried on the blood that satisfies us. If we’re deprived of that for too long, we go insane.
What’s the worst thing about being a vampire?
The inconvenience of that blasted sunlight sensitivity. Daylight doesn’t kill me, and I’m slightly less bothered by it than a purebred vampire, but direct sun gives me a headache, and prolonged exposure has an effect similar to heatstroke. Also, being naturally nocturnal, I find it uncomfortable to maintain the diurnal waking hours required of a practicing psychiatrist.
What is the best thing about being a vampire?
The ecstasy of sharing blood with my beloved.
Are there many others like you?
Vampires? No more than 10,000 in the world. Like myself, part vampire and part human? I personally know of only three others, one of whom is my own daughter. Interbreeding in nature (as opposed to deliberate hybridization) has been an extremely rare accident.
Are you a magical creature or are you a different species?
A different species living secretly among humankind, extremely long-lived and hard to kill.
Do you enjoy being a vampire?
Yes, now that I have a human partner who freely offers her blood, saving me from the guilt of preying on unwitting victims.
Where are you from?
I was born in France to a female vampire and her human lover, who were murdered when I was about a year old. I was taken to Boston and privately adopted by a human couple, who weren’t aware of my true background, which was why I didn’t know it myself for the first four decades of my life. I earned a medical degree at Harvard; I chose psychiatry as my specialty mainly because the abnormal mind fascinated me on account of what I thought to be my own mental illness.
Do you have a love interest?
Yes, my partner in my psychiatric practice, Dr. Britt Loren. Early in our association as colleagues, she deduced there was something unusual about me, and when she learned of my vampiric nature, she embraced instead of fearing it.
What makes you happy?
Britt’s love, which even after many years together feels like an undeserved miracle. Because of the guilt that plagued me during the decades before I learned my blood-thirst was natural rather than a grotesque aberration, I freely admit that I am—in layman’s terminology—a neurotic mess.
Do you have a code of honor?
In general, I try to follow the moral precepts of my faith, like any man with a strong religious background. (I’m a practicing Catholic.) If I have a vampire-specific code, it’s to refrain from harming anyone in the process of getting the blood I need.
What makes you angry?
Any threat to Britt’s life or welfare.
If you could change one thing about yourself, what would it be?
I would travel back in time and ensure that I knew about my true heritage all along, instead of spending all those years in confusion, guilt, and misery.
Name one person you trust.
Aside from Britt, my half-brother, Claude, a purebred vampire who hides in plain sight as an actor in horror films.
DARK CHANGELING: Psychiatrist Roger Darvell suffers from a dark thirst—and a very strange midlife crisis. At the age of forty, he discovers vampires exist, they differ in significant ways from the undead of popular culture, and his own background is not what he has always believed. A renegade vampire targets his patients and his new-found human lover. Before Roger can find happiness with her, he must overcome the threat of a purebred vampire serial killer. In CHILD OF TWILIGHT, Roger encounters Gillian, the twelve-year-old part-vampire daughter he has never met and, with the help of his lover, Britt, his brother, Claude, and Claude’s human wife, has to rescue Gillian when she’s kidnapped.
http://www.tinyurl.com/DarkChangeling
http://www.tinyurl.com/ChildofTwilight
An excerpt from DARK CHANGELING: Roger and Britt have been called as consultants by the local police in Annapolis. Roger quickly surmises that the murder was committed by the rogue vampire, Sandor, whom he has received taunting phone calls from but has never met. Sylvia, a woman Roger knew in Boston, is the only other vampire he has ever encountered. (Some graphic murder-scene images.):
As predicted, Roger had no trouble finding the crime site. The dome lights of three patrol cars and an ambulance splashed garish color over the stadium parking lot. The moment he stepped out of his car, the sickening smell of clotted blood hit him. Breathing shallowly through his mouth, he waited for Lieutenant Hayes to break away from the knot of officers huddled around the lump of flesh next to the tall chain link fence surrounding the stadium.
A slender man with a bushy brown mustache and a weak chin, Hayes walked over to introduce himself. “Dr. Darvell? Thanks for getting here so fast. The victim is a black female, age around thirty, unidentified. There’s no blood on the pavement under her, so the M.E. thinks she was killed elsewhere and brought here.”
“How long ago?”
“Probably dead no more than half an hour.” Hayes shook his head in disgust. “Freshest we’ve found so far.” He lit a cigarette. Roger edged away, upwind.
His eyes drifted toward the corpse, outlined in chalk, being photographed by a petite policewoman with a cap of short gray curls like steel wool. At her elbow, Britt was talking to a nondescript middle-aged man in civilian clothes. Roger wrenched his gaze back to the detective. “How did her body happen to be discovered so soon?”
“Some kid in a sports car taking a short cut through the lot. We recorded his statement and sent him home.” Hayes cleared his throat, apparently his standard preamble to a difficult remark. “I guess you might as well have a look.”
With a nod of greeting to Britt, Roger approached the body. The woman, barefoot, wore the remains of a robe and nightgown. Good Lord, Sandor must have seized her in her own front yard — or her own house! Through the shreds of the gown, Roger glimpsed lacerations on both breasts. The hole in her throat exposed the larynx and esophagus.
Roger knelt down for a closer examination. The photographer began, “Don’t touch –”
“I know,” he said. Blood spotted the woman’s ripped nightgown and the bosom of the robe. The collar of the robe, however, was dry and unstained. Didn’t waste a drop from the throat wound, did he? Roger’s stomach lurched at the thought.
He felt Britt next to him. Standing up, he gladly turned toward her, away from the thing on the ground.
“Roger, this is Dr. Rizzo, from the Medical Examiner’s office,” she said, indicating the man she’d been conversing with.
Rizzo, dressed in gray slacks and a green polo shirt, his gray-streaked black hair combed forward over a bald patch, shook hands with Roger. “Evening, Doctor. These crimes are like nothing I’ve seen in this area before — thank God.”
“One expects such things mainly in large cities,” Roger said. “And with good reason, I’d think. He can’t keep this up for long in a place like Annapolis without getting caught.”
“We hope.” Rizzo thoughtfully smoothed his hair. “Your associate has been telling me about similar cases, elsewhere, that she tracked down in newspaper files.”
“She did?” Roger gave Britt a sharp glance. Her face revealed nothing.
“Yesterday,” she said. “I’ll tell you all about it later.” She turned to Rizzo. “Tell him about the fractures.”
“Like the Baltimore murders?” Roger said. “And — and the previous two in Annapolis?”
“From superficial examination, I’d say both this victim’s arms are fractured,” said Rizzo, “and possibly the left leg, as well. Of course, I won’t be able to give you any specifics, such as whether the injuries were inflicted before or after death, until the autopsy.”
Britt said, “Dr. Rizzo is going to send us a copy, along with copies of the post mortems on the other two victims.” To Roger’s relief, she started walking away from the fence; he and Rizzo trailed along. “He’s also going to check into getting us the reports from the Baltimore murders.”
“We need all the help we can get,” said Rizzo. “The systematic application of forensic psychology is still pretty new, as you know, but I personally put a lot of faith in it.”
Roger wondered if Rizzo always lectured at length on the obvious, or only in stressful circumstances.
“I think I’ve seen enough,” said Britt. “How about you, Roger?”
More than enough!
After Rizzo gave them a longwinded farewell and returned to his work, Roger walked Britt to her car, just outside the circle of reddish light. Not for the first time, he noted how poorly illuminated the stadium lot was. “I don’t feel one bit like sleeping right now,” she said, unlocking the VW. “How about coming over for a couple of hours to talk about all this?”
Don’t tempt me! In his present state of turmoil, Roger didn’t trust himself alone with Britt. He needed a long, strenuous walk in the night air, followed by a cold shower and a glass of milk. “Not now,” he said. “Give me time to sort it out. Besides, we have insufficient data to work with. We’ll get together after we’ve read the M.E.’s reports.”
He sensed Britt’s reluctance to suspend the discussion. Was he only imagining that she observed him with even keener curiosity than usual? After watching her get into her car and drive away, he rejoined Lieutenant Hayes. If I don’t mention the Boston cases to him, Roger thought, it’ll come up later, and he’ll wonder why I didn’t volunteer the information.
“Lieutenant, there’s something you should know,” he began. “I consulted with the Boston Police Department in a very similar series of crimes . . . .” He summarized his involvement, then mentioned Sandor’s escape and gave Hayes the name of Lieutenant O’Toole as a contact.
Glad to have that revelation over with, Roger strolled to the far edge of the lot, bordered by Farragut, a residential street lined with quietly expensive old houses. He still felt too agitated to drive. He wondered if his nervousness were solely due to the call from Sandor and the sight of the murdered woman. Well, what else could it be? Turning paranoid on top of everything else, are we?
Roger sniffed the humid air, thankful that the breeze blew toward, not from, the stadium. His skin prickled as if ants crawled on it. He felt — watched. The same feeling he’d had the night Sandor had attacked Alice. He turned his head, surveying the unlit parking lot.
There — a flash of red. Somehow Roger knew he hadn’t glimpsed a cigarette tip or a passing car’s taillights. Glowing crimson eyes — like Sylvia’s.
Sandor? It would be typical of the killer to gloat over the carnage almost within view of his pursuers.
Without another second for thought, Roger burst into a run. He charged across the parking lot to the corner where he’d seen that red glint, out of sight of the police contingent on the other side of the stadium. A living aura shimmered into focus.
The man stood his ground like an effigy carved of stone. Roger lunged at him. His fingers, curled like talons, reached for the man’s neck.
The other warded him off with contemptuous ease. An instant later, Roger lay flat on his back on the strip of grass beside the street.
The wind was knocked out of him, and the pain of being slammed against the ground reverberated through his bones. In a spasm of rage he clawed at his opponent’s throat. The other man pinned his arms to the ground. Roger stared up into silver eyes whose centers glowed red. That observation, combined with the cool skin temperature and the strength that held him immobilized, left no doubt.
My God, Sylvia was telling the truth! There are more of them! Until this moment, despite the weight of evidence, at gut level he hadn’t believed her claims.
And this — this vampire did not match her description of the renegade.
-end of excerpt-
Margaret L. Carter specializes in vampires, having been marked for life by reading DRACULA at the age of twelve. Her vampire novel DARK CHANGELING won an Eppie Award in the horror category in 2000. Other creatures she writes about include werewolves, dragons, ghosts, and Lovecraftian entities with tentacles. In addition to her horror, fantasy, and paranormal romance fiction, she has had several nonfiction books and articles published on vampires in literature. Her stories have appeared in anthologies such as Marion Zimmer Bradley’s “Sword and Sorceress” volumes. With her husband, retired Navy Captain Leslie Roy Carter, she has collaborated on a sword-and-sorcery trilogy, beginning with WILD SORCERESS. Her recent works include LEGACY OF MAGIC (a prequel to the trilogy), PASSION IN THE BLOOD (a vampire romance), “Bear Hugs” (an erotic romance shapeshifter novella), SEALING THE DARK PORTAL (a paranormal romance with Lovecraftian elements), and “Crossing the Border” (horror erotic romance novella). Explore love among the monsters at her website, Carter’s Crypt: http://www.margaretlcarter.com.