The halo of her aura floated on the pillow. Her hair fell away from her neck and exposed the tender skin and tempting veins. The pleasure of erotic domination surged through me. My fangs started to grow, and I lapped my tongue against my dry lips. Blood tastes much better than tequila.
But I wouldn’t bite her. This investigation was tricky enough without me leaving holes in the necks of the witnesses. Plus, who knew what had contaminated her?
I climbed on the bed and straddled her, careful to put my weight onto my knees and not against her hips. Her pelvis arched aggressively and she pressed her groin against me. Odd. Hypnosis victims have always remained passive.
I laced our fingers together. Now to question her. The complication was that hypnosis opened up a victim’s subconscious and there was no telling what could come gushing out. Some blabbed like they were on a psychiatrist’s couch, and the trick was to get them to stick to my questions and shut up about everything else.
Staring into her eyes, I said, “Tamara, tell me what happened in Building 707.”
Her breathing deepened. The middle of her sweatshirt creased as her breasts rose and sank. She gulped. The focus in her eyes bore into mine, and she stared through me as if I wasn’t there.
In a relaxed voice, Tamara explained that as each floor of a building in the Protected Area was torn down, a survey team would go into the next area scheduled for demolition for a final “reconnaissance level characterization.”
“We were in the basement of 707, mapping discharge points beneath the foundry and casting modules. It was a real mess. Miles and miles of unmarked pipes. Sofia, Jenny, and I wore coveralls and respirators. We kept following one pipe after another, trying to match the master layout. Then we got lost. Apparently we had walked into a corridor that didn’t exist on the original print. We kept going since our TLDs didn’t register anything.”
“Transluminiscent dosimeters?”
“Yes. We had the new ones that chirp an alarm. About the time we figured we were under the north loading bay, we found a secure door.”
“Secure door?”
“It looked like the ones blocking the ‘infinity rooms’ in Buildings 371 and 776. The rooms that are so crapped up with radiation that the instrument counter goes off the scale to infinity. But this door wasn’t marked. It seems the demolition above had shattered the concrete around the door and sprung it open. As many times as we’ve gone through those buildings to update the placards and warnings, I wondered how anyone missed this one.”
“Did you go inside?”
“Not right away. We radioed the RLC coordinator for instructions. He didn’t know about the room, either, and told us to investigate. So we entered and looked with our flashlights. There were rows of fifty-five-gallon drums and boxes shaped like caskets.”
Caskets? Were there bodies? “What about markings?”
“There weren’t any. They looked like they were painted black.”
“Had you seen anything like them before?”
“Not the boxes. The drums, yes. They were standard, though usually they’re painted gray or white.”
Tamara lay quiet, swallowing nervously.
I stared at her, renewing my concentration to coax her to start talking again. “Continue.”
“Suddenly, something hissed, like a steam vent. A vapor started swirling from the drums and boxes, rising and surrounding us.”
Tamara’s hands trembled. I squeezed to reassure her. And strangely enough, she squeezed back.
“Tamara, you’re safe here. Go on, tell me what happened.”
She bit her lower lip. Her chin quivered.
“Tell me.”
“First my TLD started chirping. The three of us backed out of the room. Sofia’s TLD went off. Then Jenny’s. We shouted for help over the radio and ran like scared dogs. By the time we reached the entry point, our TLDs were showing seventeen rems.”
Tamara’s eyes watered with distress. “We were crapped up and had to go through rad decon. The other RCTs stripped us naked under the shower and scrubbed us with brushes. Security guards in bunny suits with Tasers and guns escorted us to bioassay.”
I knew about rad decontamination. What I needed was more details about the room. “Tell me what you saw.”
She closed her eyes and started to weep.
“Shh,” I whispered. I tightened my grip on her hands to comfort her.
Tamara turned her head from side to side to wipe her tears against the pillow.
“What about the report?”
“The Tiger Team report?” Tamara gripped my fingers hard. Her aura took a yellow cast.
This alarmed me. Never had a hypnosis subject initiated such physical action, nor had I ever seen an aura change color like this. And to yellow? Was this the nymphomania at work?
“Tell me about the Tiger Team report.”
Tamara opened her hands to loosen my grip. “Big Wong has it.”
I let go of her fingers. I’d never experienced this. Normally I was in absolute control of the hypnosis. “Dr. Wong?”
Leaning forward, I cradled her head in my hands and raked my fingers through her sweat-damp hair. Her aura clung to my fingers like Saint Elmo’s fire. “You mean Bigelow Wong, the head of Radiation Safety?”
“Yes,” she moaned. Her lips darkened. Her female scent gushed up at me. The aura lost its yellow hue and turned red.
Now I felt I was in control again. Releasing my hold on her head, I relaxed, admiring how easily I manipulated her, like I could any other human.
“Tamara, open your eyes and look at me.”
Moaning again, she slipped her right hand under the pillow.
I caressed her face. “Tamara, look at me.”
Her eyelids popped open, her pupils riveted on me. Her aura turned bright yellow again. Her right hand jerked from under the pillow and she pressed the muzzle of a Browning automatic against my forehead.
CHAPTER 6
MY CONSCIOUSNESS SHRIVELED around the circle of steel where the business end of the pistol barrel pressed into my skin. I couldn’t move fast enough to parry the gun without risking a bullet through my skull. Vampires don’t fear wooden stakes nearly as much as high-velocity metal-jacketed slugs. Especially to the brain.
My hands still cupped Tamara’s head. The yellow aura sparkled over her skin. Her eyes retained that faraway gloss from the hypnosis. Except for her holding a gun to my forehead, I’d have said that she was still under my control.
So as not to startle her, I whispered slowly, “What do you want?”
“Take off your pants,” she said in a curious, distant voice.
Ordinarily when a nymphomaniac tells you to undress, her intentions are obvious. But the gun confused the situation. I didn’t know whether she wanted to play with my nuts or shoot them off.
Her finger tensed on the trigger of the Browning. “Take off your pants,” she repeated. “Let’s do it.”
At this proximity the pistol looked as big as a howitzer. “Sure, but under the present circumstances I might have performance issues.”
“Men. Such babies.” Tamara’s left hand groped for my waist and fumbled with my belt buckle.
I nudged her hand away. Straightening my legs, I lay flat on top of her and caressed her voluptuous torso. I nuzzled her neck, cognizant of the pistol now pressed to the side of my skull.
The humid scent of her perspiration and natural pheromones formed an inviting cocktail of aromas. I kissed her neck and nibbled tenderly on the skin beside her jugular. Such temptation. My fangs protruded to their maximum length, and they ached to bite through skin.
Tamara’s breathing deepened. Her feet hooked over the back of my ankles, and she tilted her big hips to rub her pubic bone against my groin.