“Because you’ll look foolish in a tweed suit without it,” he answered in a slightly distracted voice. “Here, let me help you.” Once again, he had that shy look about him as he drew close to me. I realized that he was powerfully drawn to this body. In the old one, I had amazed him; but this body truly ignited his passion. And as I studied him closely, as I felt the busy work of his fingers on the knot of the tie—that keen little pressure—I realized that I was powerfully attracted to him.

I thought of all the times I’d wanted to take him, enfold him in my arms, and sink my teeth slowly and tenderly into his neck, and drink his blood. Ah, now I might have him in a sense without having him—in the mere human tangling with his limbs, in whatever combination of intimate gestures and delectable little embraces he might like. And I might like.

The idea paralyzed me. It sent a soft chill over the surface of my human skin. I felt connected to him, connected as I had been to the sad unfortunate young woman whom I’d raped, to the wandering tourists of the snow-covered capital city, my brothers and sisters—connected as I had been to my beloved Gretchen.

Indeed so strong was this awareness—of being human and being with a human—that I feared it suddenly in all its beauty. And I saw that the fear was part of the beauty.

Ah, yes, I was mortal now as he was. I flexed my fingers, and slowly straightened my back, letting the chill become a deep erotic sensation.

He broke away from me abruptly, alarmed and vaguely determined, picked up the jacket from the chair, and helped me to put it on.

“You have to tell me all that’s happened to you,” he said. “And within an hour or so we may have news from London, that is, if the bastard has struck again.”

I reached out and clamped my weak, mortal hand on his shoulder, drew him to me, and kissed him softly on the side of his face. Once again, he backed away.

“Stop all this nonsense,” he said, as if reproving a child. “I want to know everything. Now, have you had breakfast? You need a handkerchief. Here.”

“How will we get this news from London?”

“Fax from the Motherhouse to the hotel. Now come, let’s have something to eat together. We have a day of work ahead to figure this all out.”

“If he isn’t already dead,” I said with a sigh. “Two nights ago in Santo Domingo.” I was again filled with a crushing and black despair. The delicious and frustrating erotic impulse was threatened.

David removed a long wool scarf from the suitcase. He placed this around my neck.

“Can’t you call London again now by phone?” I asked.

“It’s a bit early, but I’ll give it a try.”

He found the phone beside the couch, and was in fast conversation with someone across the sea for about five minutes. No news yet.