The Darkangel by Meredith Ann Pierce

"You mean the water witch, his mother?"
    The duarough snorted, but said nothing more for a minute. Aeriel looked at him curiously. "She is not his mother," he said at last.
    "What do you mean?" said Aeriel.
    "The lorelei are barren," the duarough said, "as are their 'sons,' the icari. They have forsaken life—no life can spring from them. What children they call theirs they must steal at an early age___"
    The vampyre began to call again. He was some way up the bank by this time, possibly even into the next chamber. Sitting up as she was, with her ears uncovered, Aeriel could hear him perfectly.
    "Where are you?" he cried, and the dull echoes repeated the cry. "Answer me!"
    His voice sounded ugly to her—angry and on edge. Aeriel shuddered and tried not to listen. She watched the duarough, the fire, glanced around the great, bare room—
    anything to keep from hearing him. His voice became suddenly smooth, almost sweet.
    "Come out," he called, "and I promise not to be angry. You haven't really displeased me, but I must talk to you. Won't you come out?"
    His words rang true, sincere. Hearing them, Aeriel could almost believe.
    "You know I'm very fond of you," the vam-pyre said; his voice sounded so pleasant now.
    "You've nothing to fear from me. Come out."
    Aeriel had risen to her feet without realizing it. She had always obeyed him. The compulsion was strong to do so now.
    "I won't hurt you," the icarus said.
    "He's lying," said the duarough. "He'll kill you."
    "Listen to me," the darkangel called; "you shouldn't stay down here in these twisting caves; you'll lose your way. Come out now, or I shall be angry."
    The duarough held her eyes with his and would not let them go. Aeriel backed away from him toward the door.
    "All I want," cried the icarus, "is for you to promise not to tell me any more of those tales. Then we can be friends again. Agreed? Why won't you answer me?"
    The duarough stood up. Aeriel moved for the door. "Daughter," he said, "don't go to him."
    "I can't help it," cried Aeriel softly. "I know he is lying, but I cannot disobey him."
    "Try. You are only a very little under his power, child—you can still free yourself if only you want to."
    Aeriel moaned in despair. "But I do not want to," she faltered. "I want to go to him. I want to spend all my life in his service. I want to die for him."
    "Once you wanted to kill him," the duarough said.
    Aeriel closed her eyes and whispered, "Yes." That also was true.
    "And would you leave the wraiths to their fate of death?" the duarough said.
    Aeriel shook her head. "No. No."
    "Then you must not let him take you."
    "Listen," cried the vampyre, frustration beginning to override the honey in his tone. "You needn't fear about the bats and the lizards. I won't catch them anymore if you don't want...." His voice broke suddenly with rage and he shouted, "Where are you, you worthless little drudge? Come out now so I can kill you. How dare you resist me? Obey!"
    Aeriel was shaking. She could not move.
    "Why?" the darkangel roared. His voice rose and trembled. "Why have you done this to me? Telling me tales, sending me dreams-^lies! They are all of them lies. Tell me no more of them...."
    He broke off suddenly. The timbre of his voice changed, grew frantic. He was not speaking to her anymore.
    "No, go away. Go away," he said in a frightened whisper. "I don't want to think about you anymore. I left you behind a long time past. Why have you come back? Go away!"
    Silence. For a moment Aeriel could hear nothing but the fire snapping and her own uneven breathing.
    "What is it?" she breathed.
    "His dreams," said the duarough softly.
    "Don't come near me!" shrieked the vampyre. "Don't look at me. Don't touch me. I am the master here. You must obey me. Obey me...."
    His voice trailed off into a wail. Aeriel was shaking so hard she could scarcely speak.
    "I," she said. "I have done this to him."
    The duarough shook his head. "He has done this to himself. What you have done, and will do,