Kismet Knight, Vampire Psychologist 3 - Dark Harvest (12 page)

Yeah, that’ll happen.

“Anyway, we got naked and she started talking about being a vampire. I figured she was nuts, but I humored her. It wasn’t like I was going to let something as lame as her vampire delusion interfere with my orgasm.” He waggled his eyebrows. “I guess I can be a little self-absorbed sometimes.”

“You think?” I laughed so long he raised his voice to regain my attention.

“Ahem. Okay, okay. She said she was going to show me she was a vampire, and she let her fangs descend. All this time she’d been staring into my eyes, making me feel like I’d had a few tokes of good Mexican, and just as I was about to have the best climax I’d ever had …” He stopped and patted my hand. “No offense meant, of course. Our sex life was great, too.”

I laughed again, snorting a time or two. He was so pitifully self-obsessed. “No offense taken. Go on with your story. I’m all ears.” I was so tired I couldn’t even work up any annoyance at his density.

He frowned. I could almost see the wheels in his brain turning as he tried to figure out what was so funny. “So, best climax, etcetera, and then she bites me. Chomps down on my neck with her sharp teeth.

For a couple of seconds it hurt like hell, but then it felt—well, I’m sure you know how it felt, since you and Devereux …”

Multiple orgasmic body rushes, soul-melding transcendence, toe-curling ambrosia.

“Yes, I know how it felt. Then what?”

“Well, after she convinced me she was really a vampire, we sat and talked until dawn. She told me how she’d been turned, and how lonely she’d been until she joined Devereux’s coven. Evidently, he’s held in high regard by the vampire community. She says he’s strict but fair—something that isn’t common in their world. The vampire who ‘sired’ her is a wuss, so consequently, she isn’t as powerful as she would have
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been if someone like Devereux had brought her over. But, apparently if she drinks Devereux’s blood, she gets stronger. I guess that’s one of the things he does for his coven members.”

I sat up straighter in my chair. I’d never heard that. Devereux was very close-mouthed about his coven.

He shared his blood with them? I guessed that made sense, although something about it made me feel uncomfortable. What bothered me about it? Was it the intimacy of it, or the fact that he hadn’t told me? I pushed those questions out of my brain and turned my attention back to Tom. Too much to think about.

“So, I still don’t understand how hanging out with Zoë has made you want to die. That’s what really happens, you know. It isn’t usually glamorous or romantic. You’d be dead. A corpse. A blood drinker

…”

“Yeah, I get it.” He paused and studied me. “Is that really how you think of Devereux? As a corpse? Or are you just giving me your therapist spiel?”

I had to think for a few seconds. Devereux was unique in ways that had nothing to do with vampirism—all that magical mysticism and Druid ancestry. “No. I guess I don’t think of him that way, but it’s still the reality for most. And if I didn’t mention that particular set of truths to my clients, I’d be lying.

From what little I know about the process, it isn’t as if a new vampire simply springs forth with powers and ancient knowledge. All that stuff comes with time. Sometimes decades—centuries. And unless a powerful vampire does the turning, a newbie could spend eternity as someone’s flunky. Does that sound appealing to you?”

He gave me his best nefarious grin. “Not in the least. That’s why I’m here to sign up with the most powerful vampire there is. If Devereux brings me over, I’ll be in the top percentage of vampires.”

“The top percentage of vampires?” I hooted out a laugh. “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard you say, and you’ve given me lots to compare it to. If you think being a vampire is just another lifestyle choice, you’re a bigger ass than I thought. Is this some kind of competition to you? Some kind of undead award you’re after? Being a member of an exclusive club? What has Zoë been telling you? Why would you think Devereux would participate in such a thing?”

His face fell, as if he’d momentarily abandoned his performance. “I’m getting old, Kismet.”

I felt my eyebrows rise and my shoulders slump. “What?” I knew he was fixated on staying young, but he was only eight years older than me. Not old by any rational standard.

“I’m not even forty yet and I have wrinkles.” He shook his head. “My plastic surgeon said I’ve already had too many procedures for someone my age and that my skin is sun damaged. He refuses to operate on me and says if I go to another doctor, I’ll end up looking like one of those scary plastic-surgery-gone-wrong types who don’t even appear human anymore. My career is just starting to come together, and I live in la-la land, where we worship youth and beauty. Zoë says if I come over now, I’ll stay as I am forever. Maybe even gain a little youth in the process. I could at least be a star for a few years before they notice I’m not aging.”

I realized my mouth had been hanging open, so I closed it. “Wait a minute. What about the famous, good-ol’-boy television psychologist? The current media darling who was mentored into fame and fortune? He’s no spring chicken, plus he’s chubby and losing his hair. He hasn’t built his empire on his physical appearance. Why are you so paranoid? Have you considered that it might be a good thing to appear old and wise?”

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He sprang out of the chair and paced around the kitchen, no longer making eye contact. “Old and wise won’t work for the project I just pitched to cable. It’s an edgy reality program for an adult audience. I’d be counseling people, but not in a talk show format.”

I watched him march back and forth across the room. “Well, if not a talk show, what would it be?”

He mumbled something under his breath.

“What did you say? I didn’t hear you.”

He paused in front of me, crossed his arms over his chest, and cleared his throat. “Everything’s tentative right now—my people are talking to their people—but I’d be Dr. Sex. I’d … actively … counsel people who have sexual problems. Sort of a glorified sexual surrogate. We’d have a tasteful—yet erotic—bedroom set and all the sessions would take place there.” He eased into the chair again. “It would be on one of the premium channels. Lots of full-body shots. So, you can see why I need to be young and attractive.”

I bit my lip to keep from laughing again. I got a sudden visual of Tom, at his most pompous, instructing people on how to efficiently shove part A into part B, and then demonstrating the correct way to accomplish the task. It sounded like porn to me.

“So, what’s the difference between that and a porn movie?”

He thrust his chin into the air. “Sex therapists are professionals. I’d have to get a license for that specialty. I can assure you there’s no license needed for
porn!”

Oops. I’d hit a nerve. Apparently, he must’ve had some mixed emotions about the porn thing, too. We both knew that making one false move professionally could cause him to lose his psychology license.

“You came up with the idea for this program all by yourself?”

He reclaimed his chair and fanned his fingers out on the table, pretending to examine his manicured nails.

“The idea was tossed around at a party I attended. You probably remember that I have a keen interest in all aspects of sex, right?” I nodded at the understatement of the year. “Well, some friends and I were experimenting, and a couple of them teasingly asked if I knew the best position to achieve a certain goal, and I just happened to have that knowledge, so I showed them. In fact, I demonstrated various techniques to several people. At the end of the evening, someone remarked that I should go into business as a sex therapist, because I was so good at it. And, not only that, but they’d videotaped the evening and when I watched the film, I had to agree that the camera loved me. I did seem to have a knack for sex therapy.”

Trying not to laugh by holding my lower lip between my teeth was starting to hurt. My jaw made a cracking sound when I opened my mouth. I struggled to keep a serious expression on my face. “I’m not clear on the actual therapy part of this plan. What else happens besides a lot of orgasms? Can you even do that stuff on television?”

“Yes, on special channels for adults.” He nodded enthusiastically. “I forgot to mention that during the session, while I’m describing the sex techniques, I’m also talking to them about the psychological reasons for their problems, and about ways to enhance emotional intimacy. When I demonstrate something myself, I share with them personal issues I’ve overcome in order to become the man I am today. During a mock session, one of the audience members even cried at the end. It was tremendously moving. So,
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can you see why I’m excited about this idea? I’d get to do two things I love—sex and therapy—as well as make money and be on television. It just doesn’t get any better than that.”

He stared at me expectantly.

I didn’t want to say “I see” again, so I just stared back at him and noticed his unnatural ashen appearance once more. “Why are you so pale? Are you sick? Is that really why you think you want to become one of the children of the night? Is this whole Dr. Sex story just a cover?”

He gave me a sheepish look. “No. I’m not sick. I really do want to be on television. I’m so white because Zoë’s been trying to turn me, and she just doesn’t have the juice.” He lowered his gaze. “She’s getting a little worried because, no matter how much blood we swap, the only thing that happens is that I get weaker. She’s afraid she’s just killing me instead of following the transformation ritual. She wasn’t totally clear on how to perform it. In fact, we’ve just been making it up as we go along.”

“There’s a transformation ritual?”

“Yeah. Zoë asked a bloodsucker she met in California for information, and apparently there are a couple of routes to becoming a vampire. The most painless one has lots of steps and involves both the sucker and the suckee holding a
pure desire
—whatever that is.”

“Pure desire? Devereux told me that the turning process was more complicated than what’s portrayed in movies and books, but he didn’t elaborate.” And Devereux’s dead mother had mentioned something about it being difficult to become a vampire. She said intention was needed. If I ever ran into—or through—her again, I’d be sure to ask what she meant, along with a couple hundred other questions.

Then I remembered something Tom had just said and grimaced. “Go back to the thing about swapping blood. You’re drinking Zoë’s blood?” Geez. All the chemicals in his peels, facials, and hair dye jobs must have seeped through his skin and started rotting his brain. He was crazier than most of my clients. I had no idea he’d gotten so desperate.

He narrowed his eyes and pressed his lips together tightly for a few seconds. “You hypocrite! You’re boinking a corpse. You let him drink your blood. Are you honestly expecting me to believe that you’ve never sampled his? That you’ve never been on the receiving end?”

Since my judgmental opinion was probably written all over my face, I couldn’t blame him for having such a reaction.

I had a quick memory flash of participating in a vampire-packed ritual myself where Devereux handed me a golden chalice filled with blood. He’d created the magical ceremony to protect me from the dark creature who’d targeted me. I remember taking a sip from the cup and finding the taste thick and unpleasant. At the time, I wasn’t sure if I really drank from the chalice or only imagined I did. Now I knew I’d done the deed. And it was an experience I didn’t plan to repeat.

“We’re not talking about me. I’m not the one going on a liquid diet. But, for your information, no. I haven’t sampled his.” That was true as far as I knew. The chalice had been filled with the blood of the vampires in the ritual circle. I didn’t remember seeing Devereux contribute to the potluck.

We locked eyes for a few seconds, both scowling. His brown eyes softened and he reached across the table and took my hands in his. “Will you help me, Kismet? Will you talk to Devereux for me? Put in a good word? Please?”

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Wow. Tom had to be desperate if he was willing to admit he needed anyone’s help for anything.

Shit. I could imagine the conversation I’d have with Devereux.
Devereux, my love. Would you please
drain all the blood from my ex-boyfriend Tom so he can die and rise as a vampire to become the
world-renowned Dr. Sex on cable TV?
Yeah, that would be fun. Time for some artful avoidance.

I stood and patted Tom’s cheek. “Let me sleep on it.”

He smiled, “I could help you sleep on it.”

Laughing, I walked out of the kitchen, trudged up the stairs and into the bathroom. I locked the door, stripped off the bloody clothes, and took the world’s quickest shower. Still wet, I bolted into my bedroom, secured that door, peeled down the covers—which were still clean—and jumped into the bed.

I slept like the dead.

“Looks like you threw quite a party. I’m sure the master will be amused.”

My eyes flew open. Standing next to my bed was Luna, Devereux’s personal assistant and undead pit bull. It wasn’t full dark, but since she was vertical, it was safe to assume the sun had gone behind the mountains. I’d slept the entire day away.

She was dressed in her familiar black leather: skintight pants and a cleavage-enhancing bustier. Her eye makeup was sedate compared to her usual Cleopatra-inspired artistry. Only one color of eye shadow, rather than the multi-hued extravaganza she regularly painted on. But the bold design was still a sharp contrast to her very pale skin. Long, straight hair fell like a thick, black veil in an unintended salute to Morticia from
The Addams Family.
Her silver eyes reminded me of … the murdering psychopath from the night before. I took a breath and forced myself to banish that thought. It wasn’t safe to send out any unconscious invitations.

“What are you talking about? What party?” I sat up and something fell from my forehead down onto my breasts. I’d been in such a hurry to get into bed that I hadn’t taken the time to put on a nightgown. Or anything else.

Without thinking about my state of undress, I flicked on the bedside lamp, squinted down at the shiny blue thong displayed on my chest, and tried to remember why strange underwear would’ve been on my head. Unless I’d blacked out and one of my split personalities had invited someone for a sleepover, I had no answer to the mystery.

Luna bent down, lifted the thong with one finger, and dangled it in the air in front of my face. An evil smile spread across her lips. “I hope the sex was worth dying for, because the master is going to destroy him.”

I tugged a blanket over my exposed breasts and stared at the blue fabric. I snatched the unidentified object from her finger and gave it a close inspection. There, embroidered across the front in golden thread, were the initials
TR.
Well, at least I knew why Tom hadn’t left any underwear in the bathroom when he got dressed. He obviously still enjoyed whipping off his skimpy thong and throwing it into the air before getting down to business. Some things never changed. While I was glad to have solved the puzzle,
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I was disgusted by the fact that the tacky garment had somehow ended up on my head.

I tossed Tom’s underwear on the floor and met the smirking gaze of the Amazon vampire looming over me. “Tom and Zoë frolicked in my room while I was gone last night. That’s his thong. Not that I owe you any kind of explanation.”

She snorted. “I’ll be sure to tell the master. I’m
certain
he’ll be understanding. He’s
so
trusting of your sincerity.”

I wasn’t awake enough to deal with Luna. Actually, I was never awake enough to deal with the hostile she-devil. She’d loathed me even before we met, based on the fact that Devereux enjoyed my company.

To Luna, humans were only useful as a food source. She couldn’t imagine any other reason to have one of us around. I’d never figured out if there was any jealousy in the mix—if she wanted Devereux for herself—or if it really was about her belief that humans were inferior liquid delivery systems.

The fact that Devereux’s assistant looked like a cross between a Playboy bunny and a supermodel didn’t make dealing with her any easier. We’d unwillingly spent time together a few months earlier when Devereux ordered her to protect me. She’d fought an insane vampire to save my life and wound up on the short end of the fang. Watching Luna struggle to control her bloodlust while her body healed the battle scars was the most terrifying experience I’ve ever had. She regressed to a primitive state, took control of my mind, and paralyzed my body. I was literally at her mercy. If it hadn’t been for the magic talisman I wore, she’d have drained me dry. I know that because she told me. And I believed her.

Devereux assured me he and Luna had never been intimate, and I trusted him, but every time I saw her outrageous body I wondered, why not?

I frowned, thinking about coffee. “So, why are you here? What do you want?”

She lifted her upper lip in an Elvis-like sneer to show me her fangs. She was one creepy bloodsucker.

“Never mind. I know what you want.” I snugged the blanket up a little higher. “And you know you aren’t going to get it. Devereux won’t let you suck on me. So, again, why are you here?”

“Lucky for you I fed before I arrived, otherwise I might be tempted to drink from you, heal the punctures, and erase your memory. You’re fortunate I’m loyal to the master. But never doubt that I’m still counting the minutes until he casts you aside. Then all your protection will end, and we’ll …

rendezvous.

“He sent me to tell you he is still involved with the warring covens, so he won’t be available until after midnight. He wants you to join him at The Crypt then. He also commands that you wear the protective necklace he gave you.”

She snarled and vanished.

He commands?

Devereux had given me the magical silver pentagram—the one that kept Luna from my throat—when I’d been stalked by a mentally deranged, serial murdering vampire who caused my world to fall apart five months earlier. It hadn’t kept the monster away completely, but it discouraged several other hungry undead predators from turning me into a buffet. Wearing the necklace sounded like a great idea.

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I’d only stopped wearing the beautiful pentagram because having the weight of it constantly against my skin became irritating. It was well made and substantial. I had to ask Devereux to remove the necklace, because he’d added some kind of extra wizardly voodoo that caused it to reappear around my neck immediately if I tried to remove it. Apparently, he was the only one who could hit the
pause
button on the spell. So, now the silver treasure hung from the corner of my mirror.

I flopped back into the bed and pulled the covers over my head.

Well, Kismet, what’s it going to be? Should you get up, or hide under the covers? Hmmm. Difficult decision. Let’s review the reasons to burrow in: a maniacal killer who has plans for you, a bloodsucking supermodel who yearns to drain you dry, an ex-boyfriend who wants to become the undead Dr. Sex, and an ancient lust object who arranges your life to suit himself.

As much as I wanted to put my bizarre world on hold, my body reminded me that no matter how crazy things got, I still had to pee. I sat up, threw my legs over the side of the bed, and stood. I shuffled to the closet, grabbed my fluffy pink robe, and scurried next door to the bathroom.

I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror over the sink and laughed. I’d gotten my hair wet in the shower before climbing into bed, and my thick, dark curls stuck out in all directions like a fright wig. My skin seemed whiter than usual, but that was probably due to the shock of witnessing a murder. And then being brain-slimed by the killer. It would’ve been unnatural to have no physical reactions to the insanity. I was surprised I was functional at all.

Craving caffeine, I headed down to the kitchen to load up my Mr. Coffee. It felt unnatural to wake up this late in the day. My whole system was out of whack. I stood staring at the pot while the aromatic elixir brewed.

I noticed my empty couch and its lack of occupancy. If Tom had spent the day there, he’d left no evidence behind. No clothes on the floor or take-out food containers on the table. Now that he had his own personal vampire transport service, I knew I hadn’t seen the last of him. Especially since he intended to use me to ingratiate himself with Devereux.

Reveling in the silence, I’d just grabbed the handle of the coffeepot to pour my first brain-stimulating dose of nirvana when there was a loud pounding on my front door.

The sound startled me and I almost dropped the pot. “What the hell now?”

The banging continued, and I stomped over to the door.

I flicked on the porch light, eyeballed the peephole, and saw white hair. Releasing the locks, I pulled the door open.

“Maxie!”

She leapt inside, closed and locked the door, pressed her body against it, and stared at me.

She looked like I felt. Her skin was pasty and there were dark circles under her tired blue eyes. She had severe bed hair and a pillow crease across her cheek.

I touched her arm. “Maxie, what happened to you? Where did those guys take you? Are you okay?”

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“Yeah. No. Damned if I know. That’s why I’m here. I hoped you could tell me what the hell happened to me.”

“Come inside. I need coffee. Do you want some?”

“Does a werewolf shit in the woods?”

“I’ll take that as a yes.” We shuffled like zombies into the kitchen and I pulled out a chair at the table.

“Sit down. How do you take your coffee? Do you want something to eat? I’ve got bagels.”

“Black for the coffee and no for the food. But don’t let me stop you.”

I filled two mugs, carried them to the table, and sat across from her. We both drank silently for a few seconds. It was as if we both understood the importance of the sacred coffee ritual. Neither of us wanted to disturb the other’s ecstatic moment. But, finally, she put her mug down, glanced at me, and burst out laughing.

“Have you seen your hair?”

I smiled, because I had. “Have you seen yours?”

“Yeah.” She nodded. “I didn’t take a shower or brush my hair or anything. I didn’t know what else to do besides come here.” Her eyes went vacant. “I only have sketchy memories of anything after the two satanic wannabes grabbed me from the mezzanine. I’m missing a lot of details. A portion of the videotape in my brain was edited. I just woke up about an hour ago in my apartment, still dressed in the clothes I wore last night, and I’m not sure how I got there.” She stared down into her coffee. “Shit, Kismet. How the hell did they just appear like that? How did they get me down to my car, because I have vague recollections of driving? Why would I just take off and leave you there? Jesus. I was so terrified when I woke up and thought about what might have happened to you. Especially after I guilted you into going with me.” She turned frightened eyes to me. “What happened?”

Without thinking, I almost blurted out the truth. I was right on the verge of unburdening myself about the existence of vampires, homicidal rituals, and the reality of one psychotic, murdering bloodsucker in particular. I’d actually gone so far as to form the first word with my lips when I remembered who I was sitting with, and, more important, what she did for a living.

I held Maxie’s gaze, adopted my compassionate therapist expression, and hoped Victoria had been exaggerating about my face’s inability to bluff.

Maxie had told me she’d never found any evidence for the existence of the paranormal. She also said she was worried about her job. It didn’t take a brain surgeon to figure out what she’d do with any information I shared. Even if she couldn’t prove anything I said, it wouldn’t matter. I’d be the story. Just another chapter in the crazed adventures of a formerly respected local psychologist who’d gone ’round the preternatural bend. Given the rag she worked for, proof wouldn’t be an issue. I couldn’t put myself or my clients in jeopardy by indulging loose lips.

I reached across the table and took her hand. “What do you remember?”

She studied my face for a moment, extricated her hand from mine, and lifted her coffee mug. She frowned and broke eye contact, staring down at the table. I got a quick sense that Maxie was hiding something, which was weird because I was the one trying to avoid telling any impossible tales.

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This sudden intuitive flash about Maxie made me realize I hadn’t had any hits about her before. Not even when we first met. I replayed our time together, trying to recall any instances where my psychic radar had given me insights about her, and drew a blank. I couldn’t think of any other time in my life when I’d been unable to sense someone’s emotions or read between the lines. Either my empathic and clairsentient abilities were on the fritz, or Maxie shielded better than anyone I’d ever met.

She raised her gaze to mine. “I remember us lying on our bellies on the balcony, looking down at the chubby guy being killed on the stage below. Or, pretending to be killed, whatever. Although the guy did seem pretty convincing. I’d just started snapping photos again when I was snatched off the floor by a couple of creeps in black robes. There’s a page missing in my memory book at that point. I think I surfaced later, long enough to observe myself driving. How the hell could I observe myself driving? What does that even mean? Did you see them take me?” She pointed to herself.

“Yes, I did. They must have sneaked up behind us, because I didn’t hear them coming. There had to be a staircase up to the balcony from the main floor. Maybe they’d been there, watching us the whole time.”

She didn’t appear convinced. “I don’t know. I think I would’ve heard a couple of wannabes creeping up behind me. I’ve got a black belt in paranoia, and I pride myself on being able to sense the freaks before they get close enough to hassle me. But even if there was a staircase, that doesn’t explain why I don’t remember anything.”

I sighed. “Yeah, that’s true.” It was official: I sucked at lying. Dancing around the truth was already making me feel like shit. Technically, I had no actual proof about why her memory was impaired, but I’d seen evidence of a certain bloodsucking sociopath’s mind-control abilities, and strongly suspected he’d erased Maxie’s mental tapes. But did I really have any choice? Which was worse? Holding back information that Maxie probably wouldn’t believe anyway, or exposing myself and my clients to another media blitz of ridicule and scorn? No contest. I’d say whatever was necessary to point her in a different direction. Maybe I could eventually convince myself that I’d protected her from horrors she really didn’t need to know about.