DARK HARVEST
by
Lynda Hilburn
SMASHWORDS EDITION
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PUBLISHED BY:
Lynda Hilburn on Smashwords
Dark Harvest
Copyright © 2010 by Lynda Hilburn
Print versions of The Vampire Shrink and Dark Harvest (books #1 and #2 in the Kismet Knight, Vampire Psychologist series) are available at a bookstore near you. Or through Medallion Press.
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
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Chapter 1
"Top o' the morning, guys and gals, and welcome to Wake Up, Denver!, WOW Radio's top-rated talk show. I'm your humble host, Carson Miller, and sitting here with me in the studio today is Denver's own self-proclaimed vampire psychologist, Dr. Kismet Knight. She's ready and willing to answer all your bloodsucker questions. Give us a call. The phone lines are open. Welcome, Dr. Knight."
"Thanks, Carson." I leaned in. "I'm happy to be here."
He swiveled his head in my direction, and wiggled his eyebrows, still talking into the microphone. "Let me start by saying that you look finger-lickin' good this morning, Doc. Seriously babe-o-licious." He ran his thick, lumpy tongue slowly around his lips in a horror-film version of what I supposed he thought was a sexual come-on.
"Uh, thanks?" I studied his stained, too-small T-shirt and unfashionably faded jeans.
Oh, shit. Great. Another Howard Stern shock-jock wannabe, except fat and bald. What is it with all these radio assholes?
He slid his sweaty hand across my knee and grabbed on with claw-like fingers, clutching hard enough that I was sure there'd be bruises. I used both my hands to pry his grip loose and, when that didn't work, I dug my fingernails into the veiny, liver-spotted skin on the top of his hand. That got his attention. He opened his mouth in a silent yelp and I managed to shift my knees away. Grinning at me, he shook his fingers in the air, which was either an attempt to restore the circulation in his digits or his version of the universal, outdated frat-boy "hubba hubba" motion. The second seemed more probable. He continued speaking as if he hadn't just acted like an adolescent, predatory creep.
I glanced over at the door that led from our small sound booth to the engineer's room to calculate how many steps it would take me to escape if radio's Uncle Fester got another wild hair.
"Ladies and gentlemen, I have to tell you that it's a shame we aren't on TV, because Dr. Knight is a feast for the eyes. She's wearing a clingy black dress that hugs her curves in all the right places. Legs that go on forever. Big blue eyes. And she's got this great long, dark hair." He reached out to touch my hair and I smacked his vile hand away. He lowered his voice and gave it an extra layer of smarm. "It gives a guy ideas, if you know what I mean. Anyway, Doc. What the hell is a vampire psychologist? Are you a vampire?" He laughed, and his belly flopped against the table, making the microphone wobble. "Hey, I heard this joke. A vampire and a werewolf go into a bar, and . . ."
While he rambled on, I indulged in a graphic daydream about what Luna, a hostile Amazon-woman vampire of my acquaintance, could do to this jerk. It was a good thing that my boyfriend, Devereux – boyfriend, significant other, geez, did that sound stupid, but I didn't know what else to call him – isn’t a morning person, er, vampire. He doesn't suffer fools gladly and I knew he'd make short work of this mental midget.
Not that I needed Devereux to protect me, mind you. I didn't get the nickname The Highlander for nothing. Hey, behead one vampire and you get labeled forever. If you had a studly master vampire who insisted on playing bodyguard, wouldn't you indulge him once in a while? Just one fang-flashing snarl from Devereux has been known to cause more than a few stupid mortals – or immortals, for that matter – to flee.
I was enjoying my mental walk down memory lane so much it took me a moment to realize Carson had turned to me, leering.
"So, Doc. What's the deal? Are you a vampire?"
I scooted my chair a bit farther away from the host, tilted my head, and beamed an insincere smile, focusing on his ridiculous question. If he only knew. "No, Carson, I'm not a vampire. I'm a psychologist who works with the subculture of individuals who believe they're vampires. Or who want to be vampires. People seeking meaning through role-playing and exploring the dark side of themselves – the unknown – and by flaunting society's ideas of good versus evil."
"Wow, Doc. That sounds pretty sexy," he oozed. "Are you saying that Denver has a lot of these people? These pretend vampires?" He slid his hand up my leg and I slapped it away, giving him the hairy eyeball.
He laughed and pointed to the microphone, expecting, or maybe daring, me to continue my interview despite his obnoxious behavior.
I glanced at the studio clock on the far wall, and regretted the fact that I'd agreed to be a guest on the show for an entire hour. I definitely should've done more research to determine which media interviews would actually help my career, which ones had odious hosts, and which ones just wanted to exploit the fact that I'd been involved in a heavily reported serial murder investigation a few months earlier. A case dubbed the "vampire murders." Finding blood-drained bodies did tend to generate interest. Almost nobody knew that the perpetrator was a mentally defective vampire, diagnosed with what used to be called "Multiple Personality Disorder," and who was still on the loose. Nobody, that is, except a Denver police lieutenant, one cocky FBI agent, a bunch of vampires, and me.
"It seems the Doc here needs more coffee. She's a little slow on the uptake this morning. Let's go to the phones. Studio line is open."
He gave me an innocent look and shrugged, as if to say I shouldn't hold him responsible for his "performance" persona. I notched up the ice content in my glare and scooted my chair back a couple more inches.
The studio phone had two rows of buttons, eight in each row, and all of them were lit up and blinking. He reached over and pressed the closest one.
"You're on the air. Give us your first name and your question for the luscious Dr. Knight."
"Hello? Dr. Knight? This is Susan in Aurora. I want to know if you've ever worked with any real vampires?"
Why, yes, Susan. I actually chopped the head off one, was locked in a coffin by another, and have sweaty, wild, and crazy sex regularly with yet another.
Nope. Better not say that.
"That's an interesting question, Susan. Why do you ask? Do you think that vampires are real?"
"Well, not exactly, but I guess I wish they were real."
"Hmm. Why do you wish they were real?"
"Well, it would just be so cool to be with a guy who could read your mind and who could make you live forever. A guy who would want to be with you all the time. A guy who wouldn't cheat on me."
"Ah, it sounds like you've had a painful experience with a man recently. A non-vampire, right?"
"Yeah. A tarot reader told me my boyfriend was a psychic vampire. I bet you work with a lot of those, too."
"I do come across a lot of psychic vampires." I looked over at Carson. "They seem to be everywhere. For the listeners who might not know what that is, a psychic vampire is someone who feeds on the emotions and energy of others, psychologically speaking. We all know people who suck on our energy, who manipulate and control things to their advantage. We can't make them stop trying to feed on us, but we can take ourselves off the menu. We can create healthy boundaries for ourselves so that no one can drain our energy without our permission."
Carson leaned into his microphone. "Hey, Doc. Why would people give permission for some psychic vampire to feed on them?"
I glanced toward him, smiling. "Well, sometimes we don't realize we're dealing with a psychic vampire until they've already stuck their psychic fangs in our necks. They can be very clever. Manipulative. Extremely self-absorbed. We’re bespelled before we even realize what happened. Or, sometimes a person with inadequate boundaries, or a poor self-image, unconsciously invites a predator into his or her life. Psychic vampires seem to sense the vulnerabilities in others and they prey upon them. They go from one victim to another, feeding and draining. Isn't that right, Carson?"
"How would I know, Doc?" He frowned, pursed his lips. "Are you saying that I'm a psychic vampire?"
Duh.
"No, Carson. Of course not. Whatever gave you that idea?" I expanded the false smile and batted my eyelashes.
Okay. So I have a healthy Inner Bitch.
"Well, I want my listeners to know that I'm not any kind of vampire. Although I wouldn't mind doing a little sucking on various parts of your bodacious bod."
I gave him a cold stare and sneered.
He smirked and punched another button on the telephone.
"You're on the air."
"This is Crystal, Dr. Knight, and I'm calling because I have terminal cancer and the doctors say I only have a couple of months left to live. They've done everything they can. I'm only twenty-four, Doctor, and I don't want to die. I want to live at least a normal amount of years. If I can find a real vampire to bite me and turn me into one of them, will my body be cancer-free?"
Shit. They never taught this stuff in ethics class in graduate school. Do I tell her the truth, that yes, her body would be cancer-free, but she'd be the walking dead? Or, do I pretend that I still think the vampire thing is a fantasy and just let her die? Which is better? Dead or undead?
"I'm so sorry you're sick, Crystal. According to vampire legend, if a vampire brings you over, you no longer have a mortal body. So, yes. You'd be cancer-free. But you'd also be dead. Since there aren't any real vampires available at the moment to ask – Hey, that's true, they're all dead 'til sundown – I do have a medical suggestion for you. My office phone number is in the book. I'd like you to call me so we can discuss options. Will you do that?"
"Sure. I don't think it's going to do any good, but why not? I'll call you later today. Thanks, Dr. Knight."
Ah, Crystal. Be careful what you ask for because you just might get it.
"That's great. I'll talk to you then."
Carson edged close to his microphone, and made loud sniffing and sobbing noises, pretending to cry.
"Gee, Doc. That was heartbreaking, wasn't it? I wonder if she'd be willing to have some hot sex before she bites the dust? Could you ask her when she calls you?"
He chuckled at the shocked expression on my face. He'd apparently wanted to see how far he could push me. For what possible purpose? There was something very foul about Carson Miller.
"Keep those calls coming in, Denver." He clicked the next flashing button on the phone. "You're on the air with the succulent Dr. Knight and the humble Carson Miller. Speak now or forever hold your . . . whatever."
"Hi, Dr. Knight! This is Amber. Me and my girlfriends are cosmetologists, and we're listening to you at our hair salon, along with our customers. We think you're cool." Clapping and cheers sounded in the background.
Carson slumped back in his chair, a demented grin on his fat face.
"Thanks, Amber." I put a smile in my voice. "I appreciate that. How can I help you?"
"Well," she began, her tone breathy, excited, "we're rabid vampire book fans. We read every vampire book that comes out, and there are lots of vampire romances these days. Why do you think women get turned on by the idea of having sex with a vampire? I mean, aren't their bodies cold and hard like statues? How arousing is that?"
I chuckled. "Let me begin with your first question. I think women are intrigued with the notion of having sex with vampires, because vampires are extraordinary. They're immortal and desperately need the woman's very blood in order to exist. Imagine being needed that intensely. That's a pretty powerful metaphor, don't you think?"
Be still, my heart . . .
"Wow," Amber said. "I never thought of it that way."
"And," I said, "it’s doubtful that a gorgeous vampire would be sitting in front of the television, night after night, drinking beer and ignoring her, like an undead Homer Simpson, right?"
She laughed. "You better believe it!" More catcalls and cheers from the salon.
"Women fantasize about males who are heroic, mysterious, or non-ordinary, as well as gorgeous with bodies to die for. What's wrong with a good fantasy?"
I should know. Devereux is definitely fantasy material.
"Woot! Woot! Woot!" came from the speakers.
After they calmed down, I continued, "About vampires having bodies like statues, some of the popular books do portray their vampires that way, but I definitely agree with you. I probably wouldn't find a cold, hard body appealing. I prefer the authors who give their vampires warm, almost-human characteristics. If I were going to write a vampire novel, I'd have the vampires retain control of their body functions: heartbeat, breathing, warmth, state of sexual readiness . . ."
The softest, warmest lips imaginable . . .
"Yes! Sex at the drop of a . . . fang!" Wild cheering floated across the airwaves.
With a loud click, Carson disconnected the call and barked into his microphone. "Damn! That's enough of the sex talk." He cupped his equipment. "You guys are turning me on, and I won't be responsible for what happens. Next call." He punched another button on the phone.
"Dr. Knight? My name is Nancy Whitmore and I'm a social worker in Denver."
"Thanks for calling, Nancy. How can I help you?"
"I remember reading about the murder case you were involved in a while back when a couple of young people were killed. Vampire wannabes, the media called them. The murderer was never caught. I'm wondering if you've seen the numbers of kids getting into the vampire lifestyle decreasing or increasing since then? I would've thought the negative publicity would scare them off, but I'm finding more and more kids are getting lured in. Do you offer any groups or educational classes I can refer the kids to? Is there any validity to the talk about some kind of evil energy getting stronger in Denver?"
Carson stood and walked behind my chair, clamped his sausage-sized fingers on my shoulders, and massaged roughly. The engineer on the other side of the glass in front of us shook his head frantically, gesturing at Carson to return to his seat. Carson's hands inched away from my shoulders, heading down toward my breasts. I bolted from the chair, and grabbed my microphone as I slipped out of his reach.
Speaking of evil energy. What was up with this fool? I hadn't heard any feedback about him from anyone that would've led me to believe he was such a degenerate. Was he on drugs? He'd be a midnight vampire snack, if he didn't chill pretty soon. There was more than one benefit to hanging out with the undead.
I leaned against the glass separating the on-air room from the hallway, where spectators were lined up, laughing and pointing at Carson's supposedly clever antics. I tried to focus on answering Nancy's questions, while making sure I stayed out of Carson's vicinity.
He danced around the studio while I spoke, lifting the front of his T-shirt, pointing to his protruding, hairy stomach. His audience made its pleasure known. I tried not to lose my breakfast and kept my voice steady.
"Those are great questions, Nancy. Yes. I do offer both groups and educational classes. Have them call my office. I have noticed an increase in people of all ages joining these cults. It doesn't make sense, because there's been so much negative publicity about the dark underside of the vampire lifestyle. There does appear to be an escalating interest. I've also heard the talk about Denver being one of the places where evil is growing. A police friend told me recently that all forms of violent crimes are up here. People seem to be losing control of themselves. I admit I don't understand what could be causing the changes."
Well, at least not anything I can talk about.
Carson leaped back into his chair, drew his microphone close, and affected a whining, high-pitched voice, "Oh, my goodness gracious. There's evil in Denver. Somebody save me! That's enough with the social worker." He punched the next blinking button. "You're on the air, and I insist you be more interesting than the last caller."
There were a few seconds of silence, during which the hairs on the back of my neck rose and goose bumps swarmed over my arms. Although silence doesn't begin to cover it. It was more like the air had been sucked out of the room. Or a black hole had opened up – cold, bottomless, and terrifying. Even Carson seemed temporarily entranced. Then a deep, sonorous male voice spoke.
"Dr. Knight. I have looked forward to meeting you."
My solar plexus tingled as it always did when a vampire was near.
Whoa. What's going on here? This guy has the vampire voice, for sure. And his vibe is definitely bloodsucker. But it's daylight, so he can't really be a vampire. I shouldn't be able to feel a vampire over the telephone, right? I don't trust myself anymore to make judgments about who's a vampire and who isn't. Brother Luther slipped right under my radar and that almost got me killed.
Carson, who'd snapped out of his mini-trance, wheezed into the microphone, "Hey, Doc. I think we got us a live one here! Or a dead one! I'm a riot – I really crack myself up. I'll bet this guy's a vampire. He sounds like a vampire. So, Mister Vampire. What's your name and what's it like being a creature of the night?" He sat back in his chair, smiling, waiting for the next straight line to be supplied for his comedy routine.
The caller whispered, "Silence, tedious human."
Carson slumped in his chair, his chin landed on his fleshy chest, and his eyes snapped shut.
I stared wide-eyed at Carson, having seen this kind of hypnosis-like state before. Always from vampires. Real ones.
"Dr. Knight?" the deep voice purred.
I gasped involuntarily. His voice was distractingly arousing. It caressed my skin like warm fingers, reminding me of intimate encounters of the gorgeous undead variety. What the hell was going on?
I cleared my throat. "Yes. I'm here. There does seem to be something . . . unique . . . about you. Something . . ."
"Vampiric?" he whispered, the resonance of the word vibrating like a hand stroking my body.
Yikes. I think I moaned. Pull yourself together, Kismet. You've been through this before. Now's not the time to re-explore the "V" spot. Take a deep breath and cross your legs. Tight.
He gave a devilish chuckle.
"You're a vampire?" I blurted a bit too loudly.
"I am, indeed."
And hopefully, all the listeners will assume he's a wannabe or a nutter.
"How can you be a vampire and be awake during the day?"
"I am very old. Older than anything you can understand. I no longer have any limitations on my abilities. As long as my body is sheltered from the direct rays of the sun, it is pleasant to move about. Although, I much prefer the night. Each vampire has his or her own special skills. You have only had a small taste of mine."
When he said "taste," I felt something tongue-like move between my legs and I pressed my thighs even tighter together.
I glanced over at Carson to make sure he wasn't witnessing my discomfort, but he was still out cold, drooling down the front of his shirt. His studio audience seemed entranced, too.
This can't be good. The entire radio audience is listening to me talk to a real vampire. Is this some kind of setup? I've never felt a vampire this powerful before. Maybe not even Devereux.
Apparently reading my thoughts, the caller said, "They will not remember a thing, Dr. Knight. Do not trouble yourself about the humans. They are in a light trance. We can chat freely."
I suddenly imagined hundreds of cars swerving off roads all over the Denver metro area, as listeners dozed at the wheel.
He laughed, the sound tightening my stomach. I wasn't sure if the feeling was pleasure or pain. Maybe it was both.
"Ah, yes. One might expect a psychologist to be the compassionate type. But never fear. The populace is safe from me. At least for the moment. They are merely hypnotized. It is quite simple to insert a mental suggestion into the radio waves. For a vampire, creating an altered state is not dependent upon proximity. Your mortals believe they're listening to a pleasant tune while we speak and will resurface remembering a relaxing daydream. No harm will come to them. Until it suits me, anyway."
"What do you want?" I finally managed to mumble. The sound of his voice made my head fuzzy.
"Just to introduce myself. I am a unique soul, even in the vampire world. Lyren Hallow, Vampire Hunter Extraordinaire, at your service. You may call me Hallow."
His disclosure momentarily threw me and I sputtered, "What? A vampire hunter? But you're a vampire. How can you be a vampire hunter? Aren't there rules about that?"
"A fiend has to make a living, yes?" He laughed, the sound caressing my pleasure centers. "Even ancient vampires are not immune to the delightful siren song of money. Surprisingly superficial, I admit, but the acquisition of gold has always been an intriguing game. And in my own defense, I challenge you to keep uncovering reasons to crawl out of the tomb every night after thousands of years. Existence can be such a chore. Hunting down and killing my own kind, now there is something a nightwalker can sink his fangs into."
He laughed again, as if he found himself highly amusing.
I cleared my throat, stalling for time. Ever since I stumbled into Denver's hidden vampire community, I'd been struggling to regain my balance – to find some sanity to cling to in the midst of one absurd revelation after another.
"Why are you telling me all this?"
"I have been hired to harvest someone you know. I thought it only sporting to tip my hand ever so slightly,just to keep things interesting. And, of course, you are becoming very well known in the bloodsucker community. I simply could not resist strolling through your brain, if even from a distance. I expect you will make the quest much more tantalizing for me. The link between us is open now, so it will be much easier for us to communicate in the future. But, alas, I must leave you. Duty calls. Oh, and by the way. You might notice some changes in your behavior. Less inhibitions. Nothing to worry about. Until we meet again, lovely Doctor Knight."
There was a click and the line went dead. So to speak.
Changes in my behavior? What the hell does he mean by "harvest"? Does he mean he's going to kill someone? Someone I know? Or, rather, some vampire I know? This must be a sick joke.
I hadn't noticed that the engineer on the other side of the glass partition in the studio had been staring off into space, until he suddenly jerked back to awareness. So did Carson, who managed to startle himself out of his chair, which rolled away from him and struck the wall with a crash. His flabby hindquarters hit the floor with a dull thud.
He wiped the pooling saliva from his chins and stood, looking around, a stranger in a strange land.
"What the hell just happened?" he bellowed, scratching his bulging belly.
The engineer knocked on the glass, then pointed to the clock to show Carson that he needed to announce the station identification and the time, because several minutes had passed and our interview was over.
Carson grabbed his microphone and slipped back into his boorish on-air personality. He gave the required information, and glared at me. "I'd like to thank our guest, the boob-dacious Dr. Kismet Knight, for being on the show today. Aliens must have abducted me because I sure as hell don't know where the time went. Stay tuned. I'll be right back after these words from our moneymakers."
He clicked off his mic and turned suspicious eyes to me.
"I don't remember shit, and I don't know what you did, but I know you did something. I feel it in my bones. There was that weird phone call and then – nothing. Maybe you slipped something into my coffee. This isn't over, Kismet, baby. You'll be hearing from me again. I have a feeling there's a story here, and I intend to be the one to exploit it as only I can." He made a sucking-in-air noise with his mouth that reminded me of the Hannibal Lecter character in The Silence of the Lambs.
I grabbed my briefcase and gave myself clear evidence of how many steps it took to get out the studio door.
It was tempting to tell Carson what kind of nasty coffin of worms he had opened, but I decided not to. He'd been the worst kind of abusive idiot to me during our interview, and I wasn't in the mood to go out of my way to save his neck – literally.
Besides, if he wanted to step into a rerun of The Twilight Zone, who was I to interfere?
I hustled down the carpeted hallway toward the lobby fast enough to generate static cling in the bottom of my dress. The material sealed itself around my knees and I stopped, resting a hand against the wall next to the reception desk, watching tiny electrical sparks dance around the fabric as I tugged it away from my legs.
Carson's voice slithered out of the invisible speakers built into the ceiling of the radio station, announcing his next guest. It was the former Miss Denver, who'd been disqualified when her breast enhancement surgery had been discovered. As if everyone and her sister wasn't lining up for augmentation these days. Thanks to my mother's contribution to my DNA, I wouldn't be joining the throngs anytime soon.
The poor beauty queen. I wondered if she was as clueless as I'd been about Carson's agenda, or if she expected to be humiliated?
I must have mumbled something out loud while I was bent over, working at the hem of my dress, because a voice answered me.
"Carson Miller is an oozing wart on the ass of humanity. No, wait. He's what gets sucked out of porta-potties after sports events. No, wait. He's what you squish out of a pimple."
Chapter 2
Surprised, I jerked my head up to discover the source of the accurate descriptions and found a hand reaching out in my direction.
My gaze traveled up – way up – to settle on the face of the tall woman standing in front of me, smiling.
Instinctively, I grasped the offered hand, and matched her smile.
She had to be well over six feet tall, because I'm just four inches shy of that in my bare feet, and today I was wearing three-inch heels. She still seemed to tower over me. Even in her comfortable-looking athletic shoes.
It was her hair, even more than her stature, that caught the eye. An amazing waterfall of silky, white hair that fell almost to the backs of her knees.
My dark brown hair is very long and curly, but compared to hers, I've got a crew cut.
I stared rudely at the arctic avalanche of snow flowing down her body, trying to figure out what sort of genetic glitch could have given someone so obviously young, such pure white hair. After a few seconds, my good manners reappeared and I offered a nod of apology.
She laughed, a warm tinkling sound, and released my hand. "Yeah, don't worry about it. Everybody has that reaction. I'm the Snow Queen, otherwise known as Maxie Westhaven, the Maxie part being short for Maxwell. My parents definitely wanted a boy." She laughed again, and spun around in a circle. "Ya think they were a little disappointed?"
I added my laughter to hers, nodding as she proved she had a healthy sense of humor about her Victoria's Secret model-type body. Even though she tried to camouflage her curvy shape, it wasn't something you could hide under a Denver Broncos T-shirt and baggy jeans. "It's nice to meet you. I'm Kismet—"
"Yeah. I know who you are. I saw your picture in the paper a few months back when you were embroiled in all that vampire stuff. I even tried to interview you then. I just heard you on the radio. Oh, by the way, I'm a reporter for National Skeptic magazine. Have you heard of us?"
My smile dissolved.
Unfortunately, I had heard of the rag. Along with anybody else who ever went to a grocery store or a Laundromat. It was impossible to miss the latest copy, which featured an absurdly fake photograph of a two-headed alien on the cover and an article about the merits of treating depression by exorcism, rather than seeing a psychotherapist.
The magazine was schizophrenic. The articles spent as much time publicizing ludicrous "cures" and practitioners, as they did debunking the so-called fakes, charlatans, and New Age gurus they supposedly exposed.
Disappointed, because I'd immediately liked her, I wrapped my professional aura around me again, and reminded myself that I had to be very careful with the media. I didn't want to do anything to put my vampire – or vampire wannabe – clients in danger. Not to mention a certain master vampire who scrambled my brain waves and jump-started my libido every time he materialized into my room.
I fired up my formal therapist's voice and answered her question, "I have, yes."
Maxie apparently noticed my attitude change and distancing maneuver. "Hmmm. I can see that my occupation doesn't fill your heart with joy. Well, let me ease your mind. I didn't approach you for an interview. I just wanted to meet you. You seem interesting. We actually might be kindred spirits, because I'm sure you spend a lot of your time convincing confused people that they don't want to pretend to be vampires, and I spend a lot of mine debunking the ones you can't talk out of it.
"See?" She shrugged and flipped a thick handful of the long, white hair over her shoulder. "We're on the same side, here. And I'll bet you thought my description of Cretin – I mean, Carson – was on the money."
I smiled before I could censor myself. I didn't believe for a minute that she hadn't come over to interview me. My intuition was doing jumping jacks to get my attention, making sure I'd gotten on the clue bus and noted the obvious fact that the snow-haired reporter was lying. I knew she definitely wanted something, and now I was curious. If she really was just prowling for a story lead, I could hold my own. I'd become expert at zigging when the media wanted me to zag. I wasn't picking up any blatantly negative energy from her, in fact, she gave off quite a lighthearted, playful vibe. Surely, it wouldn't hurt anything to let down my guard a little. Probably. Maybe. After all, I had been trying to make more human friends lately to balance the alternative. I'd never make any connections if I always suspected the motives of everybody who came near me. There's a fine line between being careful and being paranoid – a line I frequently tripped over.
"You're right. It was on the money, if understated." I chuckled, and met her eyes, which surprised me by being the same, sky-blue color as mine. I'd gotten so distracted by her amazing hair that I hadn't even noticed the perfect features of her face. The pandemonium with Carson must have thrown me off my game more than I realized.
Gee, Kismet. You're losing it. Aren't psychologists supposed to be observant? Wouldn't you say that's a handy skill for a therapist to have?
She smiled wide, exposing perfect porcelain. "Can I buy you a coffee?"
I raised an eyebrow and cocked my head. "And you were saying what about not wanting to interview me?"
She held one hand up, as if she were preparing to be sworn in for testimony in a court hearing. "I swear on a stack of Dracula novels that our conversation over coffee will be off the record. What do you say? We're on the seventeenth floor now, and my office is down on the tenth, and there's a Starbucks on the twelfth. Is Starbucks neutral enough territory?" She pointed to the elevator and plastered an obvious innocent look on her face.
I laughed, actually happy at the thought of having a few moments of chitchat with another woman around my own age – and species. No matter what her ulterior motive might be. It was fascinating spending so much time with the undead, but I always felt like an outsider – an other. Not that I needed any help feeling that way to begin with.
There were a couple of empty hours before my first client session of the day, so what the hell?
I grabbed my coat off the hanging pegs along the wall next to the elevator, and we rode down to the twelfth floor, all the time treated to Carson's sleazy, frantic voice squealing through the speakers, going on about "mondo tits." Comparatively speaking, I guess I'd gotten off easy.
* * *
"This is some good shit," Maxie said, as she held her coffee mug in both hands and inhaled the aroma. She closed her eyes and smiled, obviously in the midst of a religious experience.
I laughed and took a sip from my mug. Another coffee junkie. At least we had that in common.
As I waited for her to complete her euphoric java worship and open her eyes, I scanned the people in the room, noticing that Maxie attracted a lot of attention. That wasn't too surprising when you factored in the outrageous hair, the model's face and body, and some indefinable energy that seemed to radiate from her. And, even though I'd gotten used to generating a little attention in a room myself lately – consorting with vampires tends to bring out a woman's wilder side – it was actually pleasant to be out of the spotlight.
"So. You want to know about the hair, right?" Maxie blurted, distracting me from my people watching.
Suddenly, distant laughter echoed in my mind, and I caught a quick movement out of the corner of my eye. When I swiveled my head to investigate, nothing was there. Goose bumps ran a marathon up my arms. I stared into my coffee, wondering if the special blend of the day contained an extra ingredient, or if I was simply having an anxiety attack. After my experiences earlier in the year, I no longer took anything for granted. Not even my sanity. Or, maybe especially not my sanity.
I scanned the room and reminded myself I was in the "normal" world – sitting in a coffee shop. No paranormal creatures waiting to jump out at me. Nothing lurking in the shadows. Just regular nine-to-five types, dressed for corporate success, indulging in a bit of overpriced caffeine. Yeah. What about the vampire who'd called the radio show? He'd really felt like a vampire. And a powerful one, at that. Thinking it was possible for one of them to walk around during the day blew all my carefully constructed denials out of the water. Acknowledging they exist in the first place had been mind numbing enough, without the terrifying realization that safety was a bigger illusion than I already assumed. Part of me longed for the innocent days before I fell into the crack between the worlds.
"Doc?" Maxie tapped my arm. "You still with me?"
My gaze snapped back to her fish-eyed stare. What the hell was wrong with me? I did have a tendency to drift away, but not usually when I was sitting with someone. I'd worked really hard to learn to stay present with clients. I definitely needed more coffee.
"Sorry. Didn't mean to float away on you. Not enough sleep, I guess." I wiped the corners of my lips with a napkin. "Yes, absolutely. I'd love to know about the hair. You've got to admit it's unique. When did it turn white?" Forcing the vampire thoughts aside, I relaxed into my chair, appreciating the opportunity to discuss something I wasn't required to give advice or have an opinion about.
She scrutinized my face a few seconds longer, one eyebrow raised, then grinned and scooped the thick whiteness back into a tail, holding it with both hands. "When I was twenty years old, something amazing happened to me and my hair changed, overnight, from blond to white. I simply woke up one morning with old-lady hair. Let me tell you what a shock it was to the other girls in my dorm at college – not to mention my family."
Hmmm. She believes her hair changed overnight. Interesting. I wonder what really happened?
"There's no way your hair could be described as old-lady hair. It's gorgeous." I examined her face, guessing her to be in her late twenties to early thirties. "You said something amazing happened? Amazing good or amazing not-so-good?"
Okay. I didn't want to be interviewed, but I couldn't help turning the tables on Maxie. Once a therapist, always a therapist. Lift up the rock and see what's underneath, that's my motto. I've never been good at small talk.
She stared off for a few seconds, then turned serious eyes back to me. "Amazing good. Maybe I'll tell you about it after we get to know each other better."
Hmmm. Secrets. Did she know that offering that kind of tantalizing interpersonal tidbit was like waving a red cape at a bull? I was just about to find a way to sneak into her psychic side door when she scooted her chair closer to the table.
"So, do you believe in vampires?" Maxie fixed her eyes on mine, her lips spreading in a Cheshire-cat smile. "Strictly off the record, of course."
Talk about a quick change of subject. Maxie was probably a very good reporter, and I smiled in appreciation of her tactics. I definitely didn't want to discuss vampires, and the wheels in my brain were spinning, kicking up mental dust, as I tried to think of something innocuous to say. I'm sure my inner struggle was apparent, because I felt various emotions surf across my face.
I must have hesitated long enough that she thought she'd better try something different, because she said, "Okay, I'll go first. No interview. Honest. A simple conversation. Just two ordinary businesswomen talking about their daily lives. A couple of regular professionals, discussing alien abductions, vampires, werewolves, reincarnation, demonic possession, and other everyday occurrences. Regular, run-of-the-mill rock-and-roll." Her voice picked up speed and volume as she spoke.
"I've been writing for this magazine for five years and I've heard every preposterous story you can imagine. I think I could surprise even you. In all that time, as I've investigated each bizarre allegation thoroughly, I've never come across anything that could be even remotely considered paranormal. Not one real vampire. No werewolves. No aliens. No demons. Just a lot of sick, weird, fucked-up humans looking for attention or behaving very badly. I now know for a fact that what you see is what you get. There is no magic. There is no Wizard of Oz. Just the demented little man behind the curtain, pulling the levers."
She flopped back in her chair, breathless.
Her passionate diatribe had captured the attention of everyone in the coffee shop, and the room was so quiet you could hear a vampire fang descend.
Noticing she was center stage, Maxie smiled, stood, and spread her arms wide, acknowledging one side of the room, then the other. Her long veil of hair swayed as she moved. "Thank you, America. Thank you for this honor. They like me! They really like me!" she said, imitating an old Academy Awards acceptance speech.
"Give 'em hell, Maxie!" yelled a young male wearing a backward baseball cap. He thrust his fist into the air. The other customers applauded.
She bowed dramatically, lifted her hair out of the way, and dropped into her chair.
"If I hadn't found fame and fortune as a magazine reporter, I woulda gone into acting. And who knows? If this job doesn't pan out, I still might." She slapped her thigh with her palm, threw back her head, and howled.
Either Maxie was a certifiable candidate for a rubber room, or she was the most free-spirited person I'd met in a long time. Maybe ever.
The other Starbucks customers applauded again, some howling back at her. Apparently, they were used to her theatrics. I'd thoroughly enjoyed the performance and clapped along with the rest of the audience. I found myself laughing uninhibitedly. When I realized it had been a while since I'd done that, I was surprised by how good it felt.
"Wow," I said. "You're passionate about your skepticism. No fence sitting for you, eh?"
"Yeah, that's me. The Opinionated Cynic. The Know-It-All Pessimist. The Been-There, Done-That-And-Found-It-Boring Mocker. So, what about you? Are you a skeptic, or do you really buy all the stuff your clients try to sell?"
That was a tricky question. If she'd asked me six months ago, I'd have been able to honestly say that I agreed with her assessment completely. That vampires, wizards, witches, ghosts, and various other preternatural phenomenon were all imaginary – or delusional. No rational person could believe in fairy-tale or horror-movie creatures of the night. No reasonable, sane person would give credibility to nocturnal creepy-crawlies.
In the last half year I'd looked under the bed and found the monsters. There really was a vampire tapping at my window. Hell, forget tapping. He didn't bother with a window. He just materialized wherever he wanted and dazzled me with his platinum hair and turquoise eyes. Skepticism was no longer an option.
Unless, of course, I'd gone completely bonkers, and all my experiences could be explained away by a brain aneurysm or epileptic seizures. I took the possibility of medically caused insanity very seriously. A while back I'd actually gone so far as to have myself tested, just to rule out those probabilities. The scientific part of me simply stubbornly refused to acknowledge what seemed to be happening. As glad as I was to find myself aneurysm-free, that meant the simplest explanations were probably true. To paraphrase Occam's razor, "When analyzing a complicated situation, after you remove all the unnecessary elements, whatever is left – no matter how weird – must be true." Not being able to blame the vampires on a brain disorder meant that the simple fact – that vampires exist – must be true. Just because I understood that twisted reality didn't mean I'd totally made peace with it. No matter how many vampire clients I had.
Maxie waved her hand in front of my face and I jumped, my gaze reconnecting with hers.
"Shit, Doc. That was another long pause there. You must drive your clients nuts with that silent, staring thing. I've never understood how you shrinks do that. Should I go Freudian and read something into it? Are you avoiding the topic?" She smiled with her mouth, but her eyes were serious – calculating.
What was going on? My brain had obviously skipped a groove again. Was I having some kind of reaction to all the stress over the last few months? Hallucinations and an inability to focus couldn't be good for business.
Suck it up, Kismet.
"No. I'm not avoiding the topic." I straightened in my chair, and ignored the questions I saw in her eyes. "I'm just thinking about how much I want to say about it. No matter what my personal opinion might be about vampires, I do have clients who either believe they're bloodsuckers or who want to become one. If I say that I don't believe in the undead, that could crush the trust I'm building with my clients. If they think I'm humoring them, they'll feel betrayed and our progress will stop. Even if you aren't interviewing me right now, it's possible you might be tempted to use what I tell you in a future article, and I can't take the chance that my clients might be harmed. So, I can truthfully say that I'm keeping an open mind about whether or not vampires exist."
Not bad. Sounds plausible. I'm actually keeping more than my mind open to the idea.
Maxie took a breath, maybe getting ready to ask a question, but I was on a roll.
"I will say that I've seen things that shake my notions of what's real and what isn't. Even in my non-vampire-wannabe clients, the mind is capable of creating astounding things. Think about all the horrors humans have caused throughout the ages. It raises the question of who really are the monsters."
She nodded. "Yeah, you'll get no argument from me there. People definitely suck. Monsters are everywhere. I get what you're saying about your clients, so I'll respectfully stop talking about vampires. This whole discussion has given me a terrific idea." She clicked her spoon on the side of her coffee mug and absently ran her tongue over her front teeth for a few seconds. Her eyes were still riveted on mine, but she was obviously deep in thought. "Are you free this evening?"
My eyebrows tiptoed up my forehead. I hadn't seen that question coming. Despite my intention to respond in my habitual way – giving my standard "I'm already committed" speech – I surprised myself by saying something totally different.
"Maybe. My plans are flexible. What's going on this evening?"
I guess I really was willing to make some changes – step outside my rigid social comfort zone. Whaddya know? Therapist, heal thyself.
She smiled wide. "I've been invited to a vampire staking. Wanna come?"
Chapter 3
A vampire staking.
I stared at Maxie with my mouth hanging open.
Of course. How silly of me to assume she'd suggest something totally inappropriate like meeting for dinner, going to a lecture, or maybe listening to a local jazz band. What was I thinking? That would've been the height of boredom. The epitome of the mundane. So pitifully human.
Why settle for routine, when we could watch vampires be killed?
No, thanks. I've already seen that movie.
I closed my mouth and cleared my throat. "Run that by me again?"
She threw back her head and laughed. "Wow. I wish I could read minds right now because I'd pay money to know what just flashed through your brain. You should've seen your face! You looked like I kicked your puppy. Or you thought the topic was serious."
"You mean you were kidding about being invited to a vampire staking?"
"Oh, hell no. I get invited to weird shit all the time. Vampire stakings, werewolf hunts, devil-worshiping ceremonies, exorcisms, witch burnings—any and every bizarre thing you can imagine. Welcome to my sick little world. It's all bullshit. Blatant cries for attention from the sickos and deviants who populate my journalistic universe."
"So, you're covering the event for your magazine?"
"I am, indeed. I've got to admit that sometimes the costumes and fake monster props are worth the price of admission. I know you're dedicated to helping the terminally confused, but in my line of work, the mentally ill can be downright entertaining. I thought you'd enjoy exploring another aspect of the vampire wannabe community. Wouldn't the Vampire Psychologist want to understand as much as possible about her potential clientele? Who knows? Some of these folks might end up on your couch."
If she knew how crowded my couch already was, and who – or what – regularly came to sit on it, she'd be in yellow-journalism heaven. As much as I wanted to make some new friends, I had the uncomfortable feeling that Maxie's idea of fun dangled a little farther over the abyss than mine.
She did have a point. Maybe it wouldn't hurt me to explore the twisted layers of the vampire community, wannabe and otherwise. I couldn't always just wait for the lost souls to show up at my office. After all, I still had a book to write. I wasn't willing to completely ignore the scholarly requirements of the academic portion of my professional responsibilities, and a chapter about an alleged vampire staking could reenergize my muse.
Or not.
Now that I'd considered the possibility, even thinking about going to some vampire-inspired event with a reporter made my head hurt. I knew I was asking for trouble, even without my radar flashing.
Nope. Definitely need to stay home and wash my hair tonight.
I opened my mouth to decline the invitation, and was interrupted by a small, rodent-like bald man, who bounded into the coffee shop and scurried over to our table.
"Hey, Maxie. Boss wants ya, pronto. Deadline, ya know? Chop-chop."
He reversed direction and sprinted out as quickly as he'd entered.
"Yeah, thanks, Dave," Maxie shouted at his retreating form.
"How did he know you were here?" I asked.
"I hide here as often as possible."
"Why didn't they just call you?" I didn't see a phone, but she could have it in her pocket.
"What's the good of sneaking off somewhere if I'm going to carry my cell phone with me? That sort of defeats the 'hiding' part, doesn't it?" She gave an exaggerated sigh and tapped the tip of her index finger against the end of her nose. "Officially putting nose back to grindstone now. I'll see you tonight." She stood in a fluid motion, beamed a mischievous smile, and danced gracefully to the exit.
"Maxie, wait!" I leaped up out of my chair. "I don't want to go to a vampire staking!"
The room went still.
I heard Maxie laugh as she reached the exit. She raised one hand in the air, waving good-bye. "No chickening out now, Doc. I'll leave directions to the vampire deal on your answering machine. See you there at 10 p.m. Hey. Nice ta meetcha." Her last words were muffled by the closing door.
"Dammit to hell!" I slammed my palm down on the table, sending a spoon clattering to the floor. The metallic sound echoed in the silence.
Immediately embarrassed by my theatrical overreaction, I eased down into my chair, folded my arms across my chest, and scanned the sea of raised eyebrows. It was as if a cosmic pause button had been pushed. Everyone in the room posed, frozen in place, staring at me. Maybe they were waiting to see what other temperamental outbursts I had up my sleeve. Too bad I couldn't make my head spin all the way around or levitate off my chair.
As far as I was concerned, the show was over. Elvis had definitely left the building.
The silence persisted for a few seconds longer and then, as if an invisible switch had been thrown, the noise volume resumed its normal level of controlled chaos.
I lifted my half-full coffee mug and took a healthy swig before discovering it had gone cold. I glared at the cup like it was the cause of my meltdown. What the hell had I gotten so angry about? The radio show with Carson was irritating, but I'd handled worse before without losing my cool. What was it? I was definitely behaving strangely.
A possible answer floated into my mind.
It had recently occurred to me that my professional training had a downside. All my therapeutic reserve and ability to remain silent while integrating client information was great in the clinical setting, but it sucked big-time in interpersonal situations. I'd let Maxie manipulate me, and it pissed me off, though I was angrier with myself than at her.
Of course I wasn't going to some pathetic gathering of attention-seeking occultists and rebellious goth teenagers. It didn't matter what Maxie thought was going to happen. I didn't owe her anything, and I'd made my decision blatantly clear.
I slid the coffee mug to the center of the table, gathered my things, and strode to the door, grumbling under my breath.
In the hallway, the elevator doors popped open as soon as I pressed the down button. Carson's voice rasping, "Take it off! Take it all off!" blasted from the speakers.
Cringing while I listened to him, I was reminded that no matter what kinds of paranormal monsters might be hiding in the closet, we humans were capable of spewing our fair share of ugliness into the world.
I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the temperature.
***
The downtown skyscraper housing the radio station was only a few blocks from my new office. The thick fog and overcast skies of the morning had magically transformed into another of Denver's famous sunny, clear masterpieces. I rolled down my car window, trailed my hand through the brisk air, and allowed the tight muscles in my neck and shoulders to relax. I hadn't realized how stressed out and tense I'd been. Evidently, fighting off a brain-dead radio host and discovering the existence of a self-proclaimed, day-walking vampire punched the needle on my weirdness meter higher than usual.
What a glorious day. Springtime in the Rockies was as unpredictable as an adolescent's mood. The blizzard that had paralyzed the area a few days ago, blanketing the Mile High City in several feet of snow, had retreated east. We were left with an already melting winter wonderland, much-needed moisture, and postcard-perfect mountain scenery. Days like this reminded me why I chose to live here.
I pulled through the underground parking lot and cruised into my very own space. A smile eased across my lips. Even the garage was immaculate. I'd had my doubts about moving into Devereux's building when he offered – after all, who knew how long my relationship with the gorgeous vampire would last? – but so far things had worked out well. Better than well, actually. Everything about my new arrangement – the architecture, furnishings, location – was a perfect reflection of Devereux's style and elegance.
Thinking about the scary, humiliating circumstances surrounding the move flipped my smile into a frown. I'd actually been kicked out of my last office. Not something I'd add to my curriculum vitae anytime soon. Discovering the dead body and blood-covered walls and carpets, a parting gift from a violent and mentally ill bloodsucker named Brother Luther, had left a bad taste in the building manager's mouth. I couldn't really blame him. I hadn't forgiven myself for completely misreading the cues about the emotionally disturbed vampire. Of course, back then I hadn't even accepted the possibility – much less the reality – of vampires. Denial can be such a comfortable place to hide.