Twilight Forever Rising

by Lena Meydan

Genres: Dark Fantasy; Fantasy Romance

Synopsis

Darel Ericson of the Dahanavar clan is a rarity among his vampire brethren: he's an empath, strong enough to occasionally read thought as well as emotion. For centuries, his power has given the Dahanavar a significant advantage against the machinations of the other vampire families, an advantage which makes Darel both a powerful tool and a highly visible target. Fortunately for Darel, it is more useful for the heads of the other clans to maintain the centuries-long peace between the houses than to remove him. But, the cunning and violent head of the House of Nachterret is tired of the truce, and of hiding his presence in the world. The Nachterret would like nothing more than have free reign over the helpless human cattle upon which they feed. Darel, and the human woman he loves, become central to the Nachterret's scheme to plunge the Houses into all out war. Darel is ultimately forced to face the question: is one young woman's life too high a price to pay for peace? At the Publisher's request, this title is being sold without Digital Rights Management Software (DRM) applied.

Release date: September 28, 2010

Publisher: Tom Doherty Associates

Print pages: 400

Sample

TWILIGHT FOREVER RISING

1THE TELEPATH
I can stand brute force, but brute reason is quite unbearable. There is something unfair about its use. It is hitting below the intellect.

-Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray

September 11, 2004

Darel Dahanavar

"Well, do you like her?" I heard Chris whisper behind my back, but I didn't answer, just cleared my throat.

She was standing under a streetlamp, leaning against the railings of the bridge with her long hair fluttering in the wind. The girl I had been following for a week.

"Then what's the problem?" my omnipresent friend asked again. "Go across to her and let's get going."

"I'm not sure."

"Nonsense. Go on, I'll wait."

There was something strange about this girl. Something unusual. I couldn't understand what exactly it was that disturbed me so much whenever I was near her. It was as if she gave off a fresh, cool breeze. Like the air streaming off a glacier. And it wasn't even a matter of how pure her blood was, although I could tell it wasn't polluted with drugs or nicotine or disease.

"Group one," Chris murmured. "Rhesus positive."

Seeing the expression of annoyance on my face, he laughed. "Take no notice. Just thinking aloud."

He turned and walked away along the dark, windy street.

The girl with a golden halo that looked like sunlight raised her head, following the flight of a white moth, and I glimpsed her gentle smile.

But it disappeared the moment she saw me standing beside her.

"Hi. Not disturbing you, am I?"

This girl I didn't know shook her head and lowered her eyes, and her lips quivered again in that half-smile that made my heart contract so sweetly.

"Darel," I said in a quiet voice, realizing that I was already unobtrusively clouding her awareness. Just a tiny bit, so that she would feel she could trust me.

"Loraine."

I had heard her voice before. Clear and gentle, as mellow as this autumn night. She had spoken only three words then-"Botanic Lane, please"-and the yellow taxi had whisked her away just when I had made up my mind to approach her. But she wouldn't escape so easily today.

"Do you like walking at night?"

"Yes." A single light, carefree word, a flutter of long eyelashes, and then again, more quietly: "Yes, I like it."

She was already starting to get used to me. Going through the stage of recognition. For her, it ought to feel like meeting someone she knew, and more than that-someone she liked very much.

"It's a nice way to pass the time."

We were already walking side by side from one streetlamp to the next, with our shadows running on ahead of us, growing shorter and longer by turns. She kept glancing at me curiously, too shy to keep her eyes on my face for long, but more at ease now. More natural. And I didn't have to look at the girl. I could see her with my inner vision: the breeze from the glacier, the cool, steady current of air. And the light. The diffuse light of a sunny autumn day.

I knew the way her eyelashes were fluttering, the way the lobe of her little ear turned pink when the wind touched it, blowing the golden curls of hair onto her cheeks; I knew her blue eyes were reflecting the cold light of the streetlamps, the black river, perhaps even my face in profile.

"Shall we go in?"

I glanced across at the brightly lit windows of a bar, and of course, I heard a quiet "Yes" in reply.

It was warm inside; there was soft music playing and a bluish haze of cigarette smoke drifting in the air. I saw Bert at a table at the far side of the room. I didn't know his girl, but she smiled, raising her glass, and I got the feeling I'd met her somewhere before.

Bert nodded coldly in reply to my silent greeting and turned away. I hadn't expected anything else.

Loraine noticed this expressive exchange of glances, but she didn't say anything, although her eyes flashed with curiosity. I ordered whiskey for myself and light French wine in a tall glass for her. Loraine smiled at my choice. "How did you know I like Aligot‚?"

I thought the color of the wine was like her hair. But I didn't answer, I just raised my glass.

When she turned her head, I saw the line of her exposed neck and a slim vein pulsing rapidly under the thin skin. . . . My lips felt hot and I raised my glass to my mouth so that the touch of the cold glass would quench the unbearable fever.

The girl looked out the window. On the opposite side of the street was a gigantic billboard with a huge black-and-white photo in the Gothic style. I read momentary regret in Loraine's feelings as she thought that she would never get to the opening night of the season that was plastered over all the billboards just then.

I nodded at the poster. "Would you like to go to that opera?"

She gave me a rather scornful look. "The tickets are all sold out."

"On a personal pass. A good friend of mine always has a couple to spare."

"Is he the director of the theater?"

"No, he's singing the lead."

Loraine smiled suspiciously and declared in an officious voice: "Hemran Vance is singing the lead in the Phantom."

But the girl hadn't caught me out in a lie. I really did know the famous rock singer, the idol of the entire younger generation. When I told her I did, her eyes turned round in amazement. I was scorched by the brightness of her elation.

"Really! You know him! Hemran himself?" Any number of exclamation marks could have been inserted into this impulsive outburst. "How long have you been acquainted?"

"Quite a long time. I can introduce you if you like."

"Of course!" she exclaimed loudly, then looked around, embarrassed. Bert was looking down into his glass. His girl was smiling and checking out the barman. No one was taking any notice of us.

I found myself liking Hemran more than ever. He'd never know what a good turn he had done me.

"In that case, I invite you to the theater."

She smiled again with that self-confident eighteen-year-old girl's smile.

"So you really could introduce me to him?"

"Yes, tomorrow, after the opening night." I got up and put some money on the bar counter.

She hadn't been expecting me to go so soon. I saw a glint of surprise in her eyes, but it faded immediately.

"I'll be waiting for you in the foyer, tomorrow evening at nine."

Gentle lights glimmered in the misty depths of her eyes. Like the final rays of the setting sun. I watched this miracle for a few moments, then turned away quickly and walked out.

The stars were going out one by one. Cool air was streaming off the river as it awoke to the day. The darkness of the night was slowly receding across the transparent sky toward the west, retreating in the face of the rising sun. . . .

Of course, Chris hadn't waited for me. But I made it in time. As always. The first bright rays shot over the horizon just as I closed the door behind me.

The opera house was built in the century before last. A massive building of gray stone, copiously decorated with columns, statues, and bas-reliefs. Monumental, cold, and majestic. Lit with gentle golden spotlights.

Marble Apollo in his flowing tunic could hardly hold back his four-in-hand of rampant horses straining to leap down off the slope of the roof. Muses, nymphs, satyrs, and maenads posed in a frozen dance around the sun god, as if they were about to throw themselves under the wheels of his chariot.

Seagulls sat on the shoulders of the stone dancers and the heads of the horses. When the entire flock rose into the air, their piercing cries drowned out the noise of the city.

There was a breath of freshness blowing from the direction of the river. The broad black ribbon glinted in the light of the streetlamps, reflecting an inverted bridge and the buildings on the embankment. The quivering forms seemed to be floating over the shallow waves. The sluice gates were closed, and three pleasure boats were waiting in the lock for the water to rise to the right level. I could hear music playing, the hubbub of people out on the town, the cries of seagulls.

There were people inside the opera house; I could feel them even through the stone walls. A gathering of small warm lights. A buzzing swarm with high voices like the screeches of the river birds soaring above its low, monotonous song. Loraine's note was a pure, resonant G.

I saw her slender figure beside one of the columns in the foyer, her golden hair tumbling across her shoulders as she looked around impatiently, trying to spot me in the crowd. I saw her twirl her rolled-up program in her hands and mechanically tuck a rebellious lock of hair behind her ear, already sensing my intent gaze but still not aware that I was watching her.

A group of skinny, long-legged teenagers was hovering about not far away. Edgy, defiant, and insecure all at the same time. They "creaked" like wagon wheels that needed grease, or their inner screeching rose to an almost unbearable crescendo. I shuddered inside and damped down my sensitivity.

"Hi."

Loraine gave a gentle start and turned around. Now I could see her glowing face with the slightly embarrassed expression, the faint shadows under her eyes, the bright flush on her cheeks.

"Good evening." She was excited; she had been looking forward to this meeting. And now she saw me in the bright light of a thousand electric lamps. My pale face, my eyes, the red rose in my hands. She blushed and turned her eyes away.

In the box I sat slightly behind her, moving my chair back so that I could see the line of her neck with those golden tresses cascading onto it, the snow white lace of her blouse . . . and the stage.

I had surprised the girl yet again.

Loraine had expected me to try to sit as close as possible. She didn't know that now, as my gaze caressed her tanned, unprotected neck, I was much closer to her than ever. Loraine turned her head to look at me, and those warm little lights were trembling in her blue eyes. The rose I brought had started slowly opening on her knees, responding to the warmth of her body.

The lights went out. The first chords of the overture sounded. Dangerously close, I heard the loud, ecstatic beating of a human heart.

I leaned forward and supported myself on the back of her chair, and Loraine started when she felt me breathing so close. I heard her trembling intake of breath, almost inaudible through the music. Without realizing what she was doing, obeying my secret desire, she leaned her head over slightly toward her shoulder, and there, so close to my lips, was the velvet skin of her neck.

Very slowly, very carefully, I moved aside the cascade of golden hair to reveal even more of that defenseless hollow between her shoulder and her collarbone. Again I heard words that were not spoken: So what's the problem, kiss her! A hot flame seared my lips, the music froze on a single note, the girl stopped breathing, the dancers hung motionless in the air, the world came to a standstill . . .

But I squeezed my hand into a tight fist until it hurt. Until my nails cut into my skin. The pain blunted my passion, and the fire receded. Again I could see, hear, and feel beyond my own desires.

I pulled away from the girl, the orchestra started playing again, and shaking off my dangerous web of enchantment, Loraine looked around and asked me:

"Do you like it?"

"Yes."

In the darkness of the hall, her eyes sparkled; golden light, almost like sunlight, glinted deep inside, where only I could see. I had completely forgotten that such things existed. But in some places they still did.

"But you're not even listening!"

"Yes, I am."

She shook her head and touched her lips with the scarlet flower. My feverish hunger became almost unbearable again.

"You're not listening. You're looking at me as if, as if . . ."

She couldn't find the words she wanted and turned back toward the stage.

There was no way she could have found them.



As usual, Hemran did not disappoint his fans. He was magnificent in the role of a bloodthirsty phantom with a heart full of torment. The rock singer's low, powerful, husky voice wove itself into the mighty strains of the organ, and I felt a chilly shiver run down my back when I heard those words of passionate despair: "I have set my life to music." Bach's composition set my heart pounding. The musical phrases held too much truth and pain, too many vivid living images.

I had to close my eyes and clench my fists again, because I was overwhelmed by a torrent of human feelings. Exultation, spellbound delight, dazed shock, sadness, superficial skepticism-"We've heard better than this"-but still, underneath, the same exultant admiration. And right there beside me, almost blinding me, Loraine's vivid astonishment. The girl was enthralled by the magic of the music and Hemran's voice. It was a shame that she didn't understand the Italian in which the phantom sang his aria.

I leaned close to the British singer's young fan and started translating in a whisper:



I am a madman! My eyes are opened now. There is no peace,

Only the passion within me is all-powerful.

My dream was as dangerous as the blade of a sword;

I have set my life to music,

I am a madman.

She listened carefully for a few seconds, then shook her head once and whispered furiously:

"No! Don't! It's not as good like that! I don't understand, but I can feel what he's saying!"

I moved back to my old position. It was true.

A long, lingering note from the organ drowned the singer's voice. The final words dissolved in a trembling F minor. For a moment the audience sat there in silence, spellbound, then it exploded into applause.

The girl turned toward me, her face glowing with delight. Her eyes were sparkling.

"Incredible! Absolutely fantastic!"

"Loraine."

She raised her dark eyebrows inquiringly.

"I'm sorry, I have to go out for a short while."

She started getting up to follow, keeping her eyes fixed on me in disappointment and surprise, but I touched her shoulder gently and made her sit back down.

"No, stay here. Wait for me. I'll be back soon. . . ."

I came back when the interval was almost over. My heart was calm again, almost cool. The embers of the recent conflagration were glowing peacefully somewhere in the depths of my soul.

Loraine didn't turn around when I walked into the box; she carried on absentmindedly tapping her program on the railing and gazing into the auditorium.

She was offended because I'd left her on her own in a theater she'd never been in before and she hadn't had a chance to look around.

"I'm sorry. I was delayed."

A slight shrug of the shoulders, setting the golden cascade of hair trembling, a brief, indifferent sigh. But my heart remained calm.

"Would you like an ice cream? Vanilla with nuts and maple syrup."

She glanced at me out of the corner of her eye and raised her eyebrows in surprise when she saw the perspiring cardboard cup with the plastic spoon in my hand. She laughed and took my offering.

"You must be telepathic. How did you guess I was absolutely dying for an ice cream?"

Just as she was about to start on her treat, she glanced at my face and said in an anxious voice:

"Darel, is that . . . blood?"

I touched my lips and looked at my fingers. On one of them there was a small scarlet drop of blood.

"I must have bit my lip."

"Do you want my handkerchief?"

She reached for her pocket, but I stopped her.

"No. Thank you. I have one. Eat your ice cream."

In the final scene, when the human Phantom dies to the somber strains of the dark, heavy music, Loraine sat there cowering in her chair, deafening me with her pity for this imaginary character.

The curtain came down in total silence. And then there was more applause. Vance, hot, sweaty, and happy, with his silk shirt open across his chest, came out to take his bow, accepted the bouquets of flowers wrapped in crisp cellophane, and smiled at his colleagues onstage. But Loraine suddenly felt this wasn't the real thing any longer. She preferred the solitary, dangerous Phantom to this Brit reveling in the spotlight. She even began to doubt that she wanted to meet the singer.

"You should never touch your idols," I said in a low voice, "the gilt comes off on your fingers."1

"What?" Loraine asked, looking around at me from halfway between her chair and the door.

"Do you still want to see Vance close up?"

"Yes, of course." The momentary doubts were forgotten. It's Vance, after all, she thought.



Unlike the glittering stage and the magnificent auditorium, the working premises of the opera house were cold, gray, and gloomy. Ceilings that were too high, with the remnants of old moldings, heavy chairs that creaked, drafts and all the noises that always go with an old building that isn't lived in. Swamped by the backstage bustle, audible only to my superacute hearing, were the singing of the wind in the attic, the cracking of the wooden panels as they dried out, the scrabbling of the rats in the heaps of old stage props in the basement. Rustling, whispering, sighing. The remains of old emotions, echoes of ancient passions. I think Chris would have seen genuine phantoms here, inhabitants of the world beyond who had not found peace.

I could only hear voices speaking scraps of monologues and sense the feelings. Sometimes distant and gray, as if they were covered in dust, sometimes exploding into bright, burning pain.

People had lived through other people's feelings here for too long, suffered too convincingly, loved and hated-every evening on the stage, every day in the rehearsal hall and the dressing rooms. Some of the more sensitive actors had probably seen phantoms here-sad, graceful little ballerinas with shoulders blue from the cold and slim legs; the black, hunchbacked figure of an old tragedian flitting across the end of a dark corridor.

But nobody was interested in mysterious sounds right now. The opera house was buzzing with live voices.

Vance was sitting in his changing room, in the company of some actor friends, a pair of attractive female admirers, and several bottles of wine. The narrow, brightly lit room was crammed with baskets of flowers. Their scents hung in the air, mingling with the smells of human sweat and theatrical makeup. The aroma of the white lilies was especially stifling.

Hemran was not playing to his audience anymore, but he still looked impressive, as he always did. His long, dark wavy hair hung down to the collar of his white shirt in casual style, and he had a silver chain as thick as a finger around his neck, with an amulet of some kind dangling from it.

His black leather trousers were slightly worn, and a drawing made in lipstick was drying on his right knee-a heart with a strand of barbed wire running through it. His face was like a peasant's or casual laborer's, with broad cheekbones and a heavy chin. Dark green, elusive eyes.

Vance preferred to look down into his glass rather than at the person he was talking to. But if you managed to glance into his eyes, you could see the human strength shimmering brightly in them. Inner genius. That was how I thought of that light.

The only reason the Faryartos hadn't taken him yet was that he wasn't handsome. And our bohemian community accepted only physically perfect human beings into its House.

Loraine stayed behind me, feeling a little shy but looking around curiously at the surroundings.

I was greeted with exclamations of friendly delight. They gave me a place beside Vance and handed me a glass of wine. Loraine squatted beside me on the edge of the chair, gazing delightedly at her idol.

On closer examination, the Brit looked tired. Absolutely whacked, exhausted. He had dark circles under his eyes and hollow cheeks. His heavy peasant hands lay wearily on the armrests of his chair as if they had just let go of the handle of a plow. Hemran had plowed the furrow of his opera honestly, and now he was resting. He wasn't buoyed up by the seething nervous energy that so many performers have after a show. The fatigue hit him just as soon as the curtain came down. He wanted to sleep, but tradition required him to sit with his friends and drink to a successful opening night.

"Well, how was it?" the rock singer inquired vaguely, scrutinizing the toe of his boot. The question was addressed to me. He knew I'd been at the performance.

"Great. I liked it. Only in the last act did you overact a bit."

"Ha!" said a young guy sitting opposite me, sticking out his lower lip contemptuously. His hair was dyed black, and he was dressed entirely in black leather. "The opinion of a dilettante."

Vance ignored this remark and looked at me intently. "How about the audience?"

"Absolutely ecstatic. Especially in the third act."

The deep crease in the singer's forehead relaxed, and he smiled.

"Rubbish," the skeptic declared. "You saw the audience reaction for yourself."

"Darel is an empath," Vance explained patiently. "He doesn't just see, he feels as well."

I felt Loraine's quick, thoughtful glance on me.

"And exactly what form does this hypersensitivity take?" The young guy in black leather looked at me suspiciously. "Can you sense the reaction of the entire audience?"

Kenzo laughed. I didn't know his real name, only his alias. He was the theater's leading man for almost all romantic hero roles. Not that he had any particular talent, but his regular, sculptural features were always pleasing to the eye.

"What, don't you believe him, Lord Vampire?" he asked mockingly. He took a bottle of champagne out of the ice bucket and drank from it, trying not to drop water on his trousers.

I thought I must have misheard.

"What did you call him?"

"Lord Vampire," repeated Ell, the bass guitarist with Vance's band. He reached out and took the bottle from his friend. "He's a Goth."

One of the girls, a blonde in a blue dress that was too tight for her, giggled. The other one, whose hair was unnaturally black, gazed adoringly at the "Lord," hanging on his every word.

There were many strange individuals among my friends, including some characters with highly exotic personality disorders. But I had never associated with Goths before. I stared at this new specimen of humanity with a curiosity matched only by Loraine's. I wondered how serious his interest in otherworldly forces really was.

The Lord Vampire thought he had shocked me, and now he waited with smug satisfaction for questions.

"Are you actually a vampire? A real one?"

"In our world nothing is real or permanent," he replied, relishing the attention everyone was giving him. "Everything is relative and temporary. Yes, I am a vampire."

Beside me, Loraine smiled skeptically, but she didn't make any comments. I looked intently at Vance's Goth friend. Black hair, almost certainly dyed, dark clothes, pale skin without a tan. Boundless delight in the dramatic image that he had invented for himself. And yes, of course yes, magnificent false fangs, which he demonstrated for me in a broad smile. A superb example of the art of dentistry.

"Incredible," I said thoughtfully. Convinced that he was more original than I, the Lord Vampire was flattered by my astonishment. "So you drink blood, then?"

"Naturally," he admitted casually. "Now and again it's necessary."

"And where do you get it?"

"Out of a can of tomato juice," said Kenzo. "The color and consistency are almost identical, and imagination supplies the missing taste and smell."

The "vampire" flashed his eyes at him angrily. Loraine and the blonde in the blue dress both snorted with laughter at the same moment. And I suddenly saw a vivid picture from the Goth's memory. A dark kitchen, lighted candles, red curtains on the windows. The Lord in a long-waisted burgundy dressing gown walking up to a black refrigerator, opening the door, and taking out a jar of thick red liquid. Filling a crystal goblet with an expression of impervious majesty on his face. Going into a room where a girl wearing a black negligee is lying on red silk cushions on the bed. She is wearing dark cherry red lipstick with black eye shadow, and her short hair is also as black as night. She slowly reaches out her hand, and the "vampire" hands her a goblet of tomato juice representing blood.

I bit my lower lip to stop myself laughing. It was better for this young guy to play at being a vampire than to become a real one. One of the Nachterret, for instance.

"I like Gothic, too," Loraine said unexpectedly, and blushed when everyone looked at her. "I mean Gothic music. Hemran, I heard your album Nemesis, it's all about that."

"I play all kinds of music," Vance replied condescendingly.

"This is Loraine," I put in. "A great fan of yours. Give her your autograph."

Hemran pulled out the drawer of the table beside him and rummaged noisily through its contents. "I had a gift edition CD in here somewhere. . . . Ah, there it is."

He took out a square flat box and a felt-tip pen, pulled out the paper insert from under the lid of the box, and signed it with a flourish below his photograph. He held it out to the girl.

"Here."

"To Loraine, who likes Gothic as much as I do," she read, and gave a deep sigh.

"Thank you! I never thought I would ever get to talk to Hemran Vance in person!" She blushed even more deeply.

"Don't mention it. Come again, I'll be glad to see you," he replied with a smile. He was pleased. Words of approval and the adoration of an attractive young fan were just the kind of support he needed. Creativity can be capricious; it requires constant stimulation.

We sat there for another fifteen minutes or so, listening to the musicians' small talk, then said good-bye and left. Loraine could have spent the entire night in the theater, but I was beginning to feel hungry.

It was cold outside. And windy. The sky was covered by low clouds, and every now and then they released a sprinkling of drizzle.

We walked to the metro through the back streets and courtyards. It was quiet, and the only people we saw were a couple of melancholy dog owners who had to accompany their four-legged friends on urgent sorties. The humans took no notice of us, but the animals were alarmed.

A huge Alsatian raised the fur on the scruff of its neck and growled-but there was more fear than menace in its voice. A shaggy lapdog squealed and dashed to the far end of a courtyard, then started barking hysterically.

"Dogs don't like you," Loraine remarked. "I wonder why?"

"Probably because cats do," I joked. Although it wasn't true. Cats were afraid of me as well.

The girl smiled and let her mind wander, her attention skipping from one thing to another: My friends will be surprised . . . Vance's personal autograph . . . Darel's a nice guy, even if he is a bit weird. But at least he's not like that Goth. . . .

"I think it's stupid." She voiced her most recent thought as she looked at the brightly lit window of the building we were walking past. "Thinking that you're a vampire."

"You think so?"

"You can play at being someone else. But being certain that you're a vampire is just weird. Don't you think so?"

"Pretense and reality are very close." I stepped across a puddle reflecting the glowing orb of a streetlamp and held out my hand to help her jump over the water. "You'd be surprised if you knew how many people want to be something that they really aren't. They find it easier to be someone else than to be themselves. It's a way of escaping from reality and their own shortcomings."

Loraine gave me a suspicious glance. "You wouldn't happen to be a psychologist, by any chance?"

"You heard already, I'm an empath."

"And you're happy with everything about yourself?"

"What makes you think that?"

"You look very pleased with yourself, kind of nonchalant. And you give off the same kind of feeling. A man who has everything in perfect order." She smiled. "No, I mean it, you're very . . ."

Loraine pondered, trying to find the right words. "Untroubled, I think that's it."

"Everyone has problems," I replied rather sharply. Talking about myself was beginning to wear thin. But that didn't bother Loraine.

"And what problems do you have?"

"I don't get out enough."

She laughed in surprise. "This is what you call not getting out enough?"

I glimpsed something unpleasant in her soul. The suspicion that I was lying and, even worse, trying to make myself seem special.

"I already said that lots of people would like to be what they're not. What they show is not what they really feel. But I sense their genuine feelings. Have you any idea how rarely I come across someone whose inner and outer emotions coincide?"

Loraine frowned. "You feel that because you're an empath?"

There was still a hint of doubt in her voice.

"Yes, being with you is easy for me. You say what you feel. I don't get that feeling of constant dichotomy, like when someone smiles at you when what he really feels is profound loathing."

Loraine lowered her head and looked down at her feet, considering. She accepted my explanation. And I admired her profile.

"But lots of people realize when someone's lying to them or being hypocritical. You don't have to have any special abilities for that."

"They realize. But they don't feel it the way I do."

The girl nodded. She wasn't offended or startled by my confession of uniqueness.

"And where do you work? I mean, is your job somehow connected with your abilities?"

"I'm a consultant with a . . . firm." It wasn't even a lie. Just a simplification.

"I see." Loraine couldn't possibly have any idea whom I advised about what, but she felt it would be rude to keep asking.

After that, we walked for five minutes without saying anything. The silence wasn't the oppressive kind, with two people trying desperately to think of ways to keep a flagging conversation going. I looked at her beautiful pensive face and relished the calmness that she radiated. It wasn't only my magical influence that was making her like me more and more.

We came out onto the av