Suzy McKee Charnas - Music of the Night

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MUSIC OF THEN IGHT

ISBN: 1-930815-23-9

ElectricStory.com and the ES design are trademarks of ElectricStory.com, Inc.

These stories are works of fiction. All characters, events, organizations, and locales are either the product

of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously to convey a sense of realism.

eBook conversion by Lara Ballinger and Robert Kruger.

v1.0 July 2001

For our full catalog, visit our site at www.electricstory.com.

Music of the Night

By Suzy McKee Charnas

ElectricStory.com, Inc.

A CKNOWLEDGMENTS

“Unicorn Tapestry”: First published inNew Dimensions II , ed. Marta Randall, Pocket Books 1980.

“Boobs”: First published inAsimov’s Science Fiction Magazine , July 1989.

“Evil Thoughts”: First published inSeaharp Hotel , ed. Charles Grant, Tor Books 1990.

“Beauty and the Opéra or The Phantom Beast”: First published inAsimov’s Science Fiction Magazine ,

March 1996.

Unicorn Tapestry

“Hold on,” Floria said. “I know what you’re going to say: I agreed not to take any new clients for a

while. But wait till I tell you—you’re not going to believe this—first phone call, setting up an initial

appointment, he comes out with what his problem is: ‘I seem to have fallen victim to a delusion of being a

vampire.’ ”

“Christ H. God!” cried Lucille delightedly. “Just like that, over the telephone?”

“When I recovered my aplomb, so to speak, I told him that I prefer to wait with the details until our first

meeting, which is tomorrow.”

They were sitting on the tiny terrace outside the staff room of the clinic, a converted town house on the

upper West Side. Floria spent three days a week here and the remaining two in her office on Central

Park South where she saw private clients like this new one. Lucille, always gratifyingly responsive, was

Floria’s most valued professional friend. Clearly enchanted with Floria’s news, she sat eagerly forward in

her chair, eyes wide behind Coke-bottle lenses.

She said, “Do you suppose he thinks he’s a revivified corpse?”

Below, down at the end of the street, Floria could see two kids skidding their skateboards near a man

who wore a woolen cap and a heavy coat despite the May warmth. He was leaning against a wall. He

had been there when Floria had arrived at the clinic this morning. If corpses walked, some, not nearly

revivified enough, stood in plain view in New York.

“I’ll have to think of a delicate way to ask,” she said.

“How did he come to you, this ‘vampire’?”

“He was working in an upstate college, teaching and doing research, and all of a sudden he just

disappeared—vanished, literally, without a trace. A month later he turned up here in the city. The faculty

dean at the school knows me and sent him to see me.”

Lucille gave her a sly look. “So you thought, aha, do a little favor for a friend, this looks classic and easy

to transfer if need be: repressed intellectual blows stack and runs off with spacey chick, something like

that.”

“You know me too well,” Floria said with a rueful smile.

“Huh,” grunted Lucille. She sipped ginger ale from a chipped white mug. “I don’t take panicky

middle-aged men anymore; they’re too depressing. And you shouldn’t be taking this one, intriguing as he

sounds.”

Here comes the lecture, Floria told herself.

Lucille got up. She was short, heavy, prone to wearing loose garments that swung about her like

ceremonial robes. As she paced, her hem brushed at the flowers starting up in the planting boxes that

rimmed the little terrace. “You know damn well this is just more overwork you’re loading on. Don’t take

this guy; refer him.”

Floria sighed. “I know, I know. I promised everybody I’d slow down. But you said it yourself just a

minute ago—it looked like a simple favor. So what do I get? Count Dracula, for God’s sake! Would you

give that up?”

Fishing around in one capacious pocket, Lucille brought out a dented package of cigarettes and lit up,

scowling. “You know, when you give me advice I try to take it seriously. Joking aside, Floria, what am I

supposed to say? I’ve listened to you moaning for months now, and I thought we’d figured out that what

you need is to shed some pressure, to start saying no—and here you are insisting on a new case. You

know what I think: you’re hiding in other people’s problems from a lot of your own stuff that you should

be working on.

“Okay, okay, don’t glare at me. Be pigheaded. Have you gotten rid of Chubs, at least?” This was

Floria’s code name for a troublesome client named Kenny whom she’d been trying to unload for some

time.

Floria shook her head.

“What gives with you? It’s weeks since you swore you’d dump him! Trying to do everything for

everybody is wearing you out. I bet you’re still dropping weight. Judging by the very unbecoming circles

under your eyes, sleeping isn’t going too well, either. Still no dreams you can remember?”

“Lucille, don’t nag. I don’t want to talk about my health.”

“Well, what about his health—Dracula’s? Did you suggest that he have a physical before seeing you?

There might be something physiological—”

“You’re not going to be able to whisk him off to an M.D. and out of my hands,” Floria said wryly. “He

told me on the phone that he wouldn’t consider either medication or hospitalization.”

Involuntarily, she glanced down at the end of the street. The woolen-capped man had curled up on the

sidewalk at the foot of the building, sleeping or passed out or dead. The city was tottering with sickness.

Compared with that wreck down there and others like him, how sick could this “vampire” be, with his

cultured baritone voice, his self-possessed approach?

“And you won’t consider handing him off to somebody else,” Lucille said.

“Well, not until I know a little more. Come on, Luce—wouldn’t you want at least to know what he looks

like?”

Lucille stubbed out her cigarette against the low parapet. Down below a policeman strolled along the

street ticketing the parked cars. He didn’t even look at the man lying at the corner of the building. They

watched his progress without comment. Finally Lucille said, “Well, if you won’t drop Dracula, keep me

posted on him, will you?”

* * *

He entered the office on the dot of the hour, a gaunt but graceful figure. He was impressive. Wiry gray

hair, worn short, emphasized the massiveness of his face with its long jaw, high cheekbones, and granite

cheeks grooved as if by winters of hard weather. His name, typed in caps on the initial information sheet

that Floria proceeded to fill out with him, was Edward Lewis Weyland.

Crisply, he told her about the background of the vampire incident, describing in caustic terms his life at

Cayslin College: the pressures of collegial competition, interdepartmental squabbles, student indifference,

administrative bungling. History has limited use, she knew, since memory distorts; still, if he felt most

comfortable establishing the setting for his illness, that was as good a way to start off as any.

At length his energy faltered. His angular body sank into a slump, his voice became flat and tired as he

haltingly worked up to the crucial event: night work at the sleep lab, fantasies of blood-drinking as he

watched the youthful subjects of his dream research slumbering, finally an attempt to act out the fantasy

with a staff member at the college. He had been repulsed; then panic had assailed him. Word would get

out, he’d be fired, blacklisted forever. He’d bolted. A nightmare period had followed—he offered no

details. When he had come to his senses he’d seen that just what he feared, the ruin of his career, would

come from his running away. So he’d phoned the dean, and now here he was.

Throughout this recital she watched him diminish from the dignified academic who had entered her office

to a shamed and frightened man hunched in his chair, his hands pulling fitfully at each other.

“What are your hands doing?” she said gently. He looked blank. She repeated the question.

He looked down at his hands. “Struggling,” he said.

“With what?”

“The worst,” he muttered. “I haven’t told you the worst.” She had never grown hardened to this sort of

transformation. His long fingers busied themselves fiddling with a button on his jacket while he explained

painfully that the object of his “attack” at Cayslin had been a woman. Not young but handsome and vital,

she had first caught his attention earlier in the year during afestschrift —an honorary seminar—for a

retiring professor.

A picture emerged of an awkward Weyland, lifelong bachelor, seeking this woman’s warmth and

suffering her refusal. Floria knew she should bring him out of his past and into his here-and-now, but he

was doing so beautifully on his own that she was loath to interrupt.

“Did I tell you there was a rapist active on the campus at this time?” he said bitterly. “I borrowed a leaf

from his book: I tried to take from this woman, since she wouldn’t give. I tried to take some of her

blood.” He stared at the floor. “What does that mean—to take someone’s blood?”

“What do you think it means?”

The button, pulled and twisted by his fretful fingers, came off. He put it into his pocket, the impulse, she

guessed, of a fastidious nature. “Her energy,” he murmured, “stolen to warm the aging scholar, the

walking corpse, the vampire—myself.”

His silence, his downcast eyes, his bent shoulders, all signaled a man brought to bay by a life crisis.

Perhaps he was going to be the kind of client therapists dream of and she needed so badly these days: a

client intelligent and sensitive enough, given the companionship of a professional listener, to swiftly unravel

his own mental tangles. Exhilarated by his promising start, Floria restrained herself from trying to build on

it too soon. She made herself tolerate the silence, which lasted until he said suddenly, “I notice that you

make no notes as we speak. Do you record these sessions on tape?”

A hint of paranoia, she thought;not unusual . “Not without your knowledge and consent, just as I

won’t send for your personnel file from Cayslin without your knowledge and consent. I do, however,

write notes after each session as a guide to myself and in order to have a record in case of any confusion

about anything we do or say here. I can promise you that I won’t show my notes or speak of you by

name to anyone—except Dean Sharpe at Cayslin, of course, and even then only as much as is strictly

necessary—without your written permission. Does that satisfy you?”

“I apologize for my question,” he said. “The . . . incident has left me . . . very nervous; a condition that I

hope to get over with your help.”

The time was up. When he had gone, she stepped outside to check with Hilda, the receptionist she

shared with four other therapists here at the Central Park South office. Hilda always sized up new clients

in the waiting room.

Of this one she said, “Are you sure there’s anything wrong with that guy? I think I’m in love.”

* * *

Waiting at the office for a group of clients to assemble Wednesday evening, Floria dashed off some notes

on the “vampire.”

Client described incident, background. No history of mental illness, no previous experience of therapy.

Personal history so ordinary you almost don’t notice how bare it is: only child of German immigrants,

schooling normal, field work in anthropology, academic posts leading to Cayslin College professorship.

Health good, finances adequate, occupation satisfactory, housing pleasant (though presently installed in a

N.Y. hotel); never married, no kids, no family, no religion, social life strictly job-related; leisure—says he

likes to drive. Reaction to question about drinking, but no signs of alcohol problems. Physically very

smooth-moving for his age (over fifty) and height; catlike, alert. Some apparent stiffness in the

midsection—slight protective stoop—tightening up of middle age? Paranoiac defensiveness? Voice

pleasant, faint accent (German-speaking childhood at home). Entering therapy condition of consideration

for return to job.

What a relief: his situation looked workable with a minimum of strain on herself. Now she could defend

to Lucille her decision to do therapy with the “vampire.”

After all, Lucille was right. Floria did have problems of her own that needed attention, primarily her

anxiety and exhaustion since her mother’s death more than a year before. The breakup of Floria’s

marriage had caused misery, but not this sort of endless depression. Intellectually the problem was clear:

with both her parents dead she was left exposed. No one stood any longer between herself and the

inevitability of her own death. Knowing the source of her feelings didn’t help: she couldn’t seem to

mobilize the nerve to work on them.

The Wednesday group went badly again. Lisa lived once more her experiences in the European death

camps and everyone cried. Floria wanted to stop Lisa, turn her, extinguish the droning horror of her

voice in illumination and release, but she couldn’t see how to do it. She found nothing in herself to offer

except some clever ploy out of the professional bag of tricks—dance your anger, have a dialog with

yourself of those days—useful techniques when they flowed organically as part of a living process in

which the therapist participated. But thinking out responses that should have been intuitive wouldn’t

work. The group and its collective pain paralyzed her. She was a dancer without a choreographer,

knowing all the moves but unable to match them to the music these people made.

Rather than act with mechanical clumsiness she held back, did nothing, and suffered guilt.Oh God, the

smart, experienced people in the group must know how useless she was here.

Going home on the bus she thought about calling up one of the therapists who shared the downtown

office. He had expressed an interest in doing co-therapy with her under student observation. The

Wednesday group might respond well to that. Suggest it to them next time? Having a partner might take

pressure off Floria and revitalize the group, and if she felt she must withdraw he would be available to

take over. Of course, he might take over anyway and walk off with some of her clients.

Oh boy, terrific, who’s paranoid now? Wonderful way to think about a good colleague. God, she

hadn’t even known she was considering chucking the group.

Had the new client, running from his “vampirism,” exposed her own impulse to retreat? This wouldn’t be

the first time that Floria had obtained help from a client while attempting to give help. Her old supervisor,

Rigby, said that such mutual aid was the only true therapy—the rest was fraud. What a perfectionist, old

Rigby, and what a bunch of young idealists he’d turned out, all eager to save the world.

Eager, but not necessarily able. Jane Fennerman had once lived in the world, and Floria had been

incompetent to save her. Jane, an absent member of tonight’s group, was back in the safety of a locked

ward, hazily gliding on whatever tranquilizers they used there.

Why still mull over Jane?she asked herself severely, bracing against the bus’s lurching halt. Any client

was entitled to drop out of therapy and commit herself. Nor was this the first time that sort of thing had

happened in the course of Floria’s career. Only this time she couldn’t seem to shake free of the resulting

depression and guilt.

But how could she have helped Jane more? How could you offer reassurance that life was not as

dreadful as Jane felt it to be, that her fears were insubstantial, that each day was not a pit of pain and

danger?

* * *

She was taking time during a client’s canceled hour to work on notes for the new book. The writing, an

analysis of the vicissitudes of salaried versus private practice, balked her at every turn. She longed for an

interruption to distract her circling mind.

Hilda put through a call from Cayslin College. It was Doug Sharpe, who had sent Dr. Weyland to her.

“Now that he’s in your capable hands, I can tell people plainly that he’s on what we call ‘compassionate

leave’ and make them swallow it.” Doug’s voice seemed thinned by the long-distance connection. “Can

you give me a preliminary opinion?”

“I need time to get a feel for the situation.”

He said, “Try not to take too long. At the moment I’m holding off pressure to appoint someone in his

place. His enemies up here—and a sharp-tongued bastard like him acquires plenty of those—are trying

to get a search committee authorized to find someone else for the directorship of the Cayslin Center for

the Study of Man.”

“Of People,” she corrected automatically, as she always did. “What do you mean, ‘bastard’? I thought

you liked him, Doug. ‘Do you want me to have to throw a smart, courtly, old-school gent to Finney or

MaGill?’ Those were your very words.” Finney was a Freudian with a mouth like a pursed-up little

asshole and a mind to match, and MaGill was a primal yowler in a padded gym of an office.

She heard Doug tapping at his teeth with a pen or pencil. “Well,” he said, “I have a lot of respect for him,

and sometimes I could cheer him for mowing down some pompous moron up here. I can’t deny, though,

that he’s earned a reputation for being an accomplished son-of-a-bitch and tough to work with. Too

damn cold and self-sufficient, you know?”

“Mmm,” she said. “I haven’t seen that yet.”

He said, “You will. How about yourself? How’s the rest of your life?”

“Well, offhand, what would you say if I told you I was thinking of going back to art school?”

“What would I say? I’d say bullshit, that’s what I’d say. You’ve had fifteen years of doing something

you’re good at, and now you want to throw all that out and start over in an area you haven’t touched

since Studio 101 in college? If God had meant you to be a painter, She’d have sent you to art school in

the first place.”

“I did think about art school at the time.”

“The point is that you’re good at what you do. I’ve been at the receiving end of your work and I know

what I’m talking about. By the way, did you see that piece in the paper about Annie Barnes, from the

group I was in? That’s an important appointment. I always knew she’d wind up in Washington. What I’m

trying to make clear to you is that your ‘graduates’ do too well for you to be talking about quitting.

What’s Morton say about that idea, by the way?”

Mort, a pathologist, was Floria’s lover. She hadn’t discussed this with him, and she told Doug so.

“You’re not on the outs with Morton, are you?”

“Come on, Douglas, cut it out. There’s nothing wrong with my sex life, believe me. It’s everyplace else

that’s giving me trouble.”

“Just sticking my nose into your business,” he replied. “What are friends for?”

They turned to lighter matters, but when she hung up Floria felt glum. If her friends were moved to this

sort of probing and kindly advice-giving, she must be inviting help more openly and more urgently than

she’d realized.

The work on the book went no better. It was as if, afraid to expose her thoughts, she must disarm

criticism by meeting all possible objections beforehand. The book was well and truly stalled—like

everything else. She sat sweating over it, wondering what the devil was wrong with her that she was

writing mush. She had two good books to her name already. What was this bottleneck with the third?

* * *

“But what do you think?” Kenny insisted anxiously. “Does it sound like my kind of job?”

“How do you feel about it?”

“I’m all confused, I told you.”

“Try speaking for me. Give me the advice I would give you.”

He glowered. “That’s a real cop-out, you know? One part of me talks like you, and then I have a dialog

with myself like a TV show about a split personality. It’s all me that way; you just sit there while I do all

the work. I want something from you.”

She looked for the twentieth time at the clock on the file cabinet. This time it freed her. “Kenny, the

hour’s over.”

Kenny heaved his plump, sulky body up out of his chair. “You don’t care. Oh, you pretend to, but you

don’t really—”

“Next time, Kenny.”

He stumped out of the office. She imagined him towing in his wake the raft of decisions he was trying to

inveigle her into making for him. Sighing, she went to the window and looked out over the park, filling her

eyes and her mind with the full, fresh green of late spring. She felt dismal. In two years of treatment the

situation with Kenny had remained a stalemate. He wouldn’t go to someone else who might be able to

help him, and she couldn’t bring herself to kick him out, though she knew she must eventually. His puny

tyranny couldn’t conceal how soft and vulnerable he was . . .

Dr. Weyland had the next appointment. Floria found herself pleased to see him. She could hardly have

asked for a greater contrast to Kenny: tall, lean, that august head that made her want to draw him, good

clothes, nice big hands—altogether, a distinguished-looking man. Though he was informally dressed in

slacks, light jacket, and tieless shirt, the impression he conveyed was one of impeccable leisure and

reserve. He took not the padded chair preferred by most clients but the wooden one with the cane seat.

“Good afternoon, Dr. Landauer,” he said gravely. “May I ask your judgment of my case?”

“I don’t regard myself as a judge,” she said. She decided to try to shift their discussion onto a first-name

basis if possible. Calling this old-fashioned man by his first name so soon might seem artificial, but how

could they get familiar enough to do therapy while addressing each other as “Dr. Landauer” and “Dr.

Weyland” like two characters out of a vaudeville sketch?

“This is what I think, Edward,” she continued. “We need to find out about this vampire incident—how it

tied into your feelings about yourself, good and bad, at the time; what it did for you that led you to try to

‘be’ a vampire even though that was bound to complicate your life terrifically. The more we know, the

closer we can come to figuring out how to insure that this vampire construct won’t be necessary to you

again.”

“Does this mean that you accept me formally as a client?” he said.

Comes right out and says what’s on his mind, she noted;no problem there . “Yes.”

“Good. I too have a treatment goal in mind. I will need at some point a testimonial from you that my

mental health is sound enough for me to resume work at Cayslin.”

Floria shook her head. “I can’t guarantee that. I can commit myself to work toward it, of course, since

your improved mental health is the aim of what we do here together.”

“I suppose that answers the purpose for the time being,” he said. “We can discuss it again later on.

Frankly, I find myself eager to continue our work today. I’ve been feeling very much better since I spoke

with you, and I thought last night about what I might tell you today.”

She had the distinct feeling of being steered by him;how important was it to him , she wondered,to feel

in control? She said, “Edward, my own feeling is that we started out with a good deal of very useful

verbal work, and that now is a time to try something a little different.”

He said nothing. He watched her. When she asked whether he remembered his dreams he shook his

head, no.

She said, “I’d like you to try to do a dream for me now, a waking dream. Can you close your eyes and

daydream, and tell me about it?”

He closed his eyes. Strangely, he now struck her as less vulnerable rather than more, as if strengthened

by increased vigilance.

“How do you feel now?” she said.

“Uneasy.” His eyelids fluttered. “I dislike closing my eyes. What I don’t see can hurt me.”

“Who wants to hurt you?”

“A vampire’s enemies, of course—mobs of screaming peasants with torches.”

Translating into what, she wondered—young Ph.D.s pouring out of the graduate schools panting

for the jobs of older men like Weyland?“Peasants, these days?”

“Whatever their daily work, there is still a majority of the stupid, the violent, and the credulous, putting

their featherbrained faith in astrology, in this cult or that, in various branches of psychology.”

His sneer at her was unmistakable. Considering her refusal to let him fill the hour his own way, this desire

to take a swipe at her was healthy. But it required immediate and straightforward handling.

“Edward, open your eyes and tell me what you see.”

He obeyed. “I see a woman in her early forties,” he said, “clever-looking face, dark hair showing gray;

flesh too thin for her bones, indicating either vanity or illness; wearing slacks and a rather creased batik

blouse—describable, I think, by the term ‘peasant style’—with a food stain on the left side.”

Damn! Don’t blush.“Does anything besides my blouse suggest a peasant to you?”

“Nothing concrete, but with regard to me, my vampire self, a peasant with a torch is what you could

easily become.”

“I hear you saying that my task is to help you get rid of your delusion, though this process may be painful

and frightening for you.”

Something flashed in his expression—surprise, perhaps alarm, something she wanted to get in touch with

before it could sink away out of reach again. Quickly she said, “How do you experience your face at this

moment?”

He frowned. “As being on the front of my head. Why?”

With a rush of anger at herself she saw that she had chosen the wrong technique for reaching that hidden

feeling: she had provoked hostility instead. She said, “Your face looked to me just now like a mask for

concealing what you feel rather than an instrument of expression.”

He moved restlessly in the chair, his whole physical attitude tense and guarded. “I don’t know what you

mean.”

“Will you let me touch you?” she said, rising.

His hands tightened on the arms of his chair, which protested in a sharp creak. He snapped, “I thought

this was a talking cure.”

Strong resistance to body work—ease up.“If you won’t let me massage some of the tension out of your

facial muscles, will you try to do it yourself?”

“I don’t enjoy being made ridiculous,” he said, standing and heading for the door, which clapped smartly

to behind him.

She sagged back in her seat; she had mishandled him. Clearly her initial estimation of this as a relatively

easy job had been wrong and had led her to move far too quickly with him. Certainly it was much too

early to try body work. She should have developed a firmer level of trust first by letting him do more of

what he did so easily and so well—talk.

The door opened. Weyland came back in and shut it quietly. He did not sit again but paced about the

room, coming to rest at the window.

“Please excuse my rather childish behavior just now,” he said. “Playing these games of yours brought it

on.”

“It’s frustrating, playing games that are unfamiliar and that you can’t control,” she said. As he made no

reply, she went on in a conciliatory tone, “I’m not trying to belittle you, Edward. I just need to get us off

whatever track you were taking us down so briskly. My feeling is that you’re trying hard to regain your

old stability.

“But that’s the goal, not the starting point. The only way to reach your goal is through the process, and

you don’t drive the therapy process like a train. You can only help the process happen, as though you

were helping a tree grow.”

“These games are part of the process?”

“Yes.”

“And neither you nor I control the games?”

“That’s right.”

He considered. “Suppose I agree to try this process of yours; what would you want of me?”

Observing him carefully, she no longer saw the anxious scholar bravely struggling back from madness.

Here was a different sort of man—armored, calculating. She didn’t know just what the change signaled,

but she felt her own excitement stirring, and that meant she was on the track of—something.

“I have a hunch,” she said slowly, “that this vampirism extends further back into your past than you’ve

told me and possibly right up into the present as well. I think it’s still with you. My style of therapy

stresses dealing with the now at least as much as the then; if the vampirism is part of the present, dealing

with it on that basis is crucial.”

Silence.

“Can you talk about being a vampire: being one now?”

“You won’t like knowing,” he said.

“Edward, try.”

He said, “I hunt.”

“Where? How? What sort of victims?”

He folded his arms and leaned his back against the window frame. “Very well, since you insist. There are

a number of possibilities here in the city in summer. Those too poor to own air-conditioners sleep out on

rooftops and fire escapes. But often, I’ve found, their blood is sour with drugs or liquor. The same is true

of prostitutes. Bars are full of accessible people but also full of smoke and noise, and there too the blood

is fouled. I must choose my hunting grounds carefully. Often I go to openings of galleries or evening

museum shows or department stores on their late nights—places where women may be approached.”

And take pleasure in it, she thought,if they’re out hunting also—for acceptable male

companionship. Yet he said he’s never married. Explore where this is going. “Only women?”

He gave her a sardonic glance, as if she were a slightly brighter student than he had at first assumed.

“Hunting women is liable to be time-consuming and expensive. The best hunting is in the part of Central

Park they call the Ramble, where homosexual men seek encounters with others of their kind. I walk there

too, at night.”

Floria caught a faint sound of conversation and laughter from the waiting room; her next client had

probably arrived, she realized, looking reluctantly at the clock. “I’m sorry, Edward, but our time seems

to be—”

“Only a moment more,” he said coldly. “You asked; permit me to finish my answer. In the Ramble I find

someone who doesn’t reek of alcohol or drugs, who seems healthy, and who is not insistent on ‘hooking

up’ right there among the bushes. I invite such a man to my hotel. He judges me safe, at least: older,

weaker than he is, unlikely to turn out to be a dangerous maniac. So he comes to my room. I feed on his

blood.

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MUSICOFTHENIGHTCopyright©2001bySuzyMcKeeCharnas.AllrightsReserved.ISBN:1-930815-23-9ElectricStory.comandtheESdesignaretrademarksofElectricStory.com,Inc.Thesestoriesareworksoffiction.Allcharacters,events,organizations,andlocalesareeithertheproductoftheauthor’simaginationorusedfictitiouslytoconveyasen...

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Suzy McKee Charnas - Music of the Night.pdf

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Suzy McKee Charnas - Music of the Night

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