and I have never had a better
meal. I hope I was able to give you as much pleasure as you gave me,
and if you are going to be here long enough, I'd appreciate the
opportunity to feed from you again.

"Affectionately,
"Enna"

It was odd thinking of himself as a delicious meal, but Thompson found
it tickled him; sure, he'd feed her again if he and his team were here
long enough. In the meantime, until he got orders, he and his team
were on leave, and as he'd told Audra, they might as well take
advantage of their stay in a System Palace.

For the rest of the day, they did just that. Their status as the
Count's guests let them enjoy the prerogatives only local nobility or
above usually got, and they took advantage of it in the ways their
various interests dictated. For Thompson, that meant a run through the
Count's target range, a hearty lunch, a trip through the planetary
zoo--he'd need a week to do justice to the whole thing, but this was a
good start--a four-course supper, and an evening at the local classics
theater to see Last Starfighter for perhaps the twentieth time.

He went to bed feeling comfortably tired, and for several hours slept
well, if with increasing unease, but about 0200 he woke and couldn't
get back to sleep. His throat itched, and he felt restless, bloated,
so irritable he had to get up and move around. For awhile he prowled
around his apartment, but that didn't help for long; eventually, he put
on a robe and went out.

He prowled the Palace corridors, rubbing the fang marks on his throat
from time to time, his unease and restless irritability growing. He
didn't like being this way--it was nothing like his usual self--but he
couldn't seem to do fight his way out of it.

After what felt like decades, he found himself at the System Security
office complex. Something inside him seemed to say "That's it," so he
went inside.

The desk sergeant--the same one who had been there the day before--looked
at him in surprise. "Is there something I can do for you, Captain?"

"I . . . I don't know." Thompson rubbed at the fang marks, frustrated
that it didn't seem to help, then began scratching at them. "Is Chief
Kaufman here?"

"No, sir, she's patrolling. You can wait here till she gets back, if
you want to. Uh . . . you shouldn't be doing that."

"Doing what?" Thompson snapped.

"Scratching yourself like that. You could . . . well, hurt yourself."

"Dammit, they itch!" The remi