"Which is why you brought me here." He raised an eyebrow. "You don't want her feeding... er..."
"Off the hoof," Marguerite offered. "She could, of course, continue to feed that way, but it is a dangerous business. Aside from increasing the risk of discovery for our people, it also carries the risk of feeding off the wrong sort and suffering side effects."
"I suppose by the 'wrong sort' you're referring to the homeless people at the shelter?" Greg asked.
"I am not being snobbish, Dr. Hewitt," Marguerite said wearily. "But homeless people who seek out shelters are hardly the healthiest individuals. Their blood is not the best nutritionally."
Greg nodded. Lissianna had mentioned the same thing earlier, but he now thought there were probably a lot of people with homes who ate junk-food-filled diets and would be just as un-nutritious for a meal. He didn't bother to mention this, however, it wasn't really important. "And the side effects you worry about are her getting drunk?"
Marguerite nodded. "Lissianna returned home from the shelter drunk, or high, several times after feeding on the wrong individual when she still lived here, and I know it still happens. She cannot always tell if they have indulged in spirits or narcotics until it is too late. Those that use them have built up a resistance; she has none. So what may leave one of them just feeling a slight high and still acting sober can leave her completely intoxicated."
Greg tried to imagine Lissianna intoxicated, but couldn't. She just didn't seem the sort.
"So," Marguerite said suddenly. "What do you think of my daughter?"
Startled by the sudden change of topic, Greg found himself stiffening as a myriad of thoughts rushed into his mind. He thought Lissianna was beautiful and intelligent and sweet and kind and she smelled good and... The list rolling through his mind was endless, but before he could pick from the collection of warm and pleasant things he thought and felt about Lissianna, Marguerite was nodding and asking, "And how are you handling the knowledge of our kind? I realize it must be disconcerting."
Greg smiled faintly at the understatement to her words. Disconcerting? Oh yeah. Having your belief system and view of the world turned upside down could be a bit disconcerting, but it was also incredibly interesting. Especially after talking with Lissianna and having some things explained.
He supposed his interest would seem odd to others, but... well, after all, these were incredible people, with skills and abilities he could only guess at and who had been around a long time. Marguerite claimed to be over seven hundred years old. Dear God, the world events she must have witnessed, the advances in technology, the people she might have met over time... real historical figures who had done great things that Greg and others could only read about. Even Lissianna--at over two hundred years old--must have seen things that would boggle Ills mind.
In a way, he found himself almost grateful to have been brought here. This was certainly more interesting than lounging around by the sea or playing beach volleyball.
Realizing that Marguerite was waiting for an answer, Greg glanced up, but before he could speak, she nodded again, and asked, "Would you be willing to stay here as our guest and treat her?"
Greg stared, suddenly realizing that she had been getting his answers by reading his mind, which was why she wasn't bothering to wait for him to verbalize them. He'd briefly forgotten her ability, but now that he did recall, Greg was more amused than annoyed. It had saved his having to come up with a polite way to say what he thought. Although, he supposed he should be alarmed; not all his thoughts and feelings for Lissianna were G-rated.
"Dr. Hewitt?" Marguerite prompted.
"Call me Greg," he murmured, noting with interest that she was appearing impatient, even frustrated. It seemed that his wandering thoughts had prevented her getting an answer to her question. Interesting, he thought.
"Will you treat Lissianna?" she repeated.
A small wry smile tugging at his lips, he said, "You tell me."
Her eyes narrowed at the challenge, then she tilted her head and went silent. Greg spent the next moments trying to keep his thoughts blank, testing to see if he could block her. When he saw impatience again flicker across her face, he almost convinced himself that he had blocked her, but a moment later, she straightened and nodded. "You would rather someone else tend to her therapeutic needs while you pursue her sexually, but you also wish to help her and feel that Jeanne Louise is right and you can't be held to the usual ethics in this instance, so will help her," she said calmly, then stood. "Now, I got very little sleep this morning; I think I shall return to my bed until the sun sets."
"Bed?" Greg echoed absently, his mind consumed with horror at how precisely she'd read what he was feeling. The woman was every guy's nightmare--a mother who knew exactly what the fellow wanted and couldn't be fooled by good manners and polite lies.
'"We do not sleep in coffins anymore, Greg. There was a time when coffins and crypts were the safest place for us to sleep, protecting us from both the sunlight and anyone who might hunt us, but that time is past. We sleep in beds, in bedrooms with windows treated to keep out the sun's harmful rays, and dark curtains over them as added protection." Marguerite tilted her head, and asked, "Did you not realize you were in Lissianna's room?"
"Er... yes," he said, feeling a bit of an idiot. "And I didn't really believe you slept in coffins, but--"
"But you were not sure."
Greg nodded apologetically.
"Well, rest easy, there is no coffin," Marguerite assured him, and moved toward the door. "Lissianna has been standing out in the hall for several moments, not wishing to interrupt. She will be relieved to find you still untied. Enjoy the rest of your afternoon. I hope it is productive."
Chapter 12
"Is this Marguerite?"
Lissianna paused and glanced back up the hall to see that Greg had stopped by a portrait on the wall. Moving back, she peered at her mother in medieval dress. "Yes. My father had it commissioned as a wedding gift."
"She looks young." Greg ran a finger lightly over the ancient frame.
"Mother was fifteen when they married."