Kismet Knight, Vampire Psychologist 3 - Dark Harvest (30 page)

She scooted forward excitedly in her chair. “Well, yeah. It’s so much fun. I never would have thought that drinking blood could be so sexual—so romantic,” she gushed.

I tried very hard to keep the neutral expression on my face.

“Sexual? Romantic? What happens at these rituals?”

AIDS! Not to mention viruses, bacteria, and things I can’t even comprehend. What about infections from the cuts? Red alert, Kismet.

“Well, first we order a pizza or something and drink some wine—maybe get high—just the same as any other night. Then we pick a partner, and after we take turns drinking a little blood—not much, just a couple of teaspoons—we have sex. It’s the most amazing feeling. I let Eric cut my boob last week and suck on it. It was so hot.”

Is this what she thinks intimacy is? Where did all this come from?

“Are you having safe sex?”

She nodded vigorously. “Don’t worry about that. I’ve got a purse full of rubbers!”

I tried to visualize a rubber big enough to fit over Eric’s entire body. I didn’t want to come off as sermonizing or lecturing because she wouldn’t come back, but I had to find a way to get across to her how dangerous this was.

“Midnight, what about diseases you can get through blood transmission? What about AIDS? Drinking blood is very dangerous.”

“Vampires can’t get diseases.”

“Eric and the other apprentices are just regular guys, aren’t they? Human?”

She stared into her lap, silent.

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“Will you consider holding off on any more cutting and drinking blood activities until we explore the consequences more thoroughly?”

She stayed silent for so long that I feared she might leap up and flee the office, but she finally gave a loud sigh. “I guess.”

I let out the breath I’d been unconsciously holding.
Whew. Talk about a pregnant pause. Even if she’s
just humoring me, it’s a start.

“Thank you, Midnight. I appreciate your open mind and your willingness to trust in our work together.

“So, outside of the rituals at Eric’s apartment, the apprentices mostly just get all dressed up and hang around with Dev and his vampire friends at the club downtown?”

She nodded.

“Tell me more about Dev.”

She got that faraway look in her eyes again and lifted out of the subdued mood she’d retreated into.

“He really rocks. So hot. He’s over six feet tall. I am so into tall guys. Gorgeous, long blond hair, aqua—not blue, not green, but aqua—eyes, and a killer bod. He’s always wearing some kind of tight, dark leather.” She sighed and drifted off again for a moment.

Hmmm. That does sound interesting.

Chuckling, I said, “I get the picture. But what’s his story? Why is he hanging out at a bar in downtown Denver? What does he do? Who is he?”

“He doesn’t talk much about that. He told me once that he’s been a vampire for eight hundred years and that he really loves Colorado because the mountains remind him of some place in Europe he lived before he died. But he seems to have a ton of money. He has this amazing loft down the street from the bar, which, by the way, he owns, and the loft is so cool. Sometimes he lets us come over and blast some tunes, and he always keeps lots of food around, even though he doesn’t eat any of it.”

Why does this supposedly gorgeous, wealthy man hang around with teenagers? He has lots of rules for them. Does he see himself as a father figure? Or is he a clever predator?

I glanced over at the clock. “Well, Midnight. Our time is up for today. I’d like to meet with you a couple of times a week for a while so I can get a good sense of how I can help you. Would you be willing to do that?”

“I guess so. You seem cool, and it’s a relief to finally be able to talk to somebody about all of it. Usually I have to be careful what I tell anyone—even Emerald.”

We scheduled our next appointment and I walked her out into the waiting area, wondering how she’d look without all the makeup. I shook my head and thought about what a miracle it was that any of us survived our teenage years.

Since Midnight was my last client of the day, I sat down at my desk, kicked off my shoes, and created a case file for her. I hadn’t been able to decide on a specific diagnosis yet, but I selected some possible
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options and then added a sheet of informal notes to her case file: Female, nineteen years old. Referred by family. After some halfhearted resistance, she readily shared her experiences. In fact, she seemed overly eager to unburden herself. Almost too willing to share all the outrageous details. I need to explore how seriously she takes this fantasy world she’s created. She’s articulate and intelligent, but naïve. She has an outgoing personality and a trusting nature that is both sweet and problematic. Is this a bid for attention or a cry for help? She is participating in some very dangerous activities, and is reluctant to acknowledge what she’s doing because this peer group is probably her main support. Explore disconnection from family. Set boundaries and create a contract for healthier behavior.

Geez. Life isn’t weird enough. We need to go out and drink blood. Why didn’t I think of that?

But I had to admit, the topic had already captured my interest. I was, after all, subject to the same rules as any other psychologist: publish or perish. I was due to write another book and the pressure was on.

And, if truth be told, my life had become boring. I had accomplished all the goals I’d set for myself and settled into a listless rhythm. After the excitement of always graduating earlier than expected from every academic program I’d ever attended, adapting to the monotony of private practice was less than thrilling.

It would be good to have a challenge.

I turned on my office computer and searched for everything I could think of about the subject: vampires, vampirism, blood, blood drinking, cults, mind control, immortal beings, etc. I was inundated with fiction stories about vampires, historical research on blood-drinkers, case studies involving the self-proclaimed undead, and websites for wannabes. Talk about an education.

I printed out examples of the most informative sources and spent a good three hours at my desk, reading through psychological reference books, seeking a trail of crumbs. By the time I came up for air and checked the clock, it had become full dark. I usually tried to avoid walking out of my office by myself at night. Too many lost souls wandering the streets.

“Shit, shit, shit,” I said out loud as I gathered the papers and tucked them into my briefcase. I put my shoes back on, found my purse and my car keys, locked up my office and headed out to the elevator.

Normally at that time of night there wasn’t much traffic in the building and the elevator came right away. I rode down, holding my keys with the car alarm clicker in my hand, and strode out the front door of my six-story office building. Luckily, I had parked conspicuously beneath one of the street lights in the parking lot across the street. My champagne-colored BMW was the only car left, so I figured I would be safe.

Just as I walked out of the building, I caught a blurred movement out of the corner of my eye, felt the hairs on my arms raise and noticed a shadow to my right. A male figure stepped away from where he’d been leaning against the wall. He stood there, gazing at me, smiling. Almost close enough for me to touch.

We locked eyes for a long moment. The light shining out of the front of my building was bright enough for me to notice that he was scrumptious. Long, blond hair, dazzling eyes, and tight leather pants.

Hey, wait a minute. Stop ogling the good looks of the guy who’s about to jump on you and RUN!

And I did.

For someone who sat on her butt all day talking to people, I could still move pretty fast when I wanted to. I was blessed with one of those long, lean, runner’s bodies, an inheritance from my father’s side of the
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family, and my body fat percentage was on the low end. But due to my mother’s genetic contribution, I was too “well endowed” to actually enjoy running on a regular basis.

The fight-or-flight instinct is an awesome thing.

I sprinted over to my car, clicked the lock, yanked the door open, jumped in, and secured the door. My heart was pounding out a heavy metal drum solo in my chest as I turned the key in the ignition.

Once I was safely barricaded in my car, and the reasoning portion of my brain sauntered back to the party, it occurred to me that I hadn’t heard any footsteps following me as I ran. Scanning the area in all directions, I could find no threat of any kind. The handsome mugger or rapist had vanished. Or maybe it had been some regular guy, enthralled by my grace and beauty, and I’d scared him off when I’d bolted.

Yeah, right, Kismet.

My heartbeat began to slow down to some semblance of normal. I’d have to say that was the most exciting thing that’d happened in weeks, which said a lot about the pathetic state of my social life.

I sat there until the adrenaline rush subsided and then shifted into drive.
I need a new office.
I drove out of the parking lot and steered the car along one of the many one-way streets that confound the traffic in downtown Denver.

I caught a red light a few streets over, which gave me a moment to check out the nightlife in this popular part of town. Taking up an entire city block was the club Midnight had told me about; the old church that had supposedly been converted into a play temple for the Children of Darkness. It really was a beautiful building. All that incredible stained glass. Funny that I’d never noticed it before. Just as the light turned green and I put my foot on the gas, I saw a tall man with long, blond hair standing on the entrance steps.

He smiled and waved at me when I passed.

* * *

I lit an aromatherapy candle, poured myself a glass of white wine, sat down in my favorite chair—one of those puffy, huge chairs with an equally large ottoman—and stretched out, letting my thoughts wander back to the blond man.

That was just too weird. My mind must be playing tricks on me. It couldn’t possibly have been the same guy, could it? Well, wait a minute. That club was only a couple of blocks from my office, and if he had been the one who saw me run to my car, then it made sense that he could have recognized the car again when I passed him. It was merely a coincidence he was at that particular club, which I only noticed because I’d heard about it today.

Just a coincidence.

But, then again. The guy in front of my office building resembled the blond, gorgeous, blood-drinking—maybe mentally ill—guy Midnight had talked about. Could I be so desperate for male company that I conjured up the image from her words? I have an active imagination, but this was ridiculous.

I carried my glass of wine over to my desk, opened my briefcase and spilled out all of the vampire
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material I’d printed. I turned on my computer, clicked on the TV and prepared to spend the next couple of hours researching possible topics for a new book.

“Allow me to introduce myself. I am Count Dracula,” blared from the speakers.

Startled, I looked up at the TV then smiled. There he was, the sexiest vampire ever. Frank Langella as Dracula, circa early 1980s. He had the best lips—pouty, full and definitely come-hither—and eyes that wouldn’t be denied. One of my college roommates had been a real vampire fan, and she had an extensive collection of bloodsucker movies.

I sat back and enjoyed watching Frank’s lips for a while, finishing my glass of wine. As the end of the movie approached, I clicked off the TV, because I didn’t want to watch those sweet lips get fried by the sun in the film’s finale.

I had a sudden memory of the last time I’d watched this movie in college, sitting with my roommates and listening to them scream at the end—rooting for the vampire to break free and fly away. Afterward they all talked about what fun it would be to invite some dark, window-tapping stranger into their beds.

Hmmm. Vampires as erotic fantasy material. Listening to my roommates that long-ago night, the budding psychologist in me had been intrigued, but I considered vampires to be horror movie and comic book fare. I was not the kind of person who believed in the supernatural or the mystical. I’d found that most things turned out to have rather bland explanations.

Of course, since then I’d taken the required class in Jungian Psychology in graduate school and I knew all about his theory of synchronicities—the interconnection between inner and outer realities based on the idea of a collective unconscious. Jung said that there are no coincidences and the universe functions through an unknowable intelligence. I could even agree with that on an abstract level. And yes, it did seem odd I was experiencing things that appeared to be related on the surface. But contemplating the cosmic possibilities of metaphysics was a helluva lot different from believing in vampires.

But, still. This had been one strange day.

Dark Harvest

© 2008 Lynda Hilburn

ISBN: 9781933836614

MEDALLION PRESS

Ed?n

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