Blood Therapy (Kismet Knight, Ph.D., Vampire Psychologist) (18 page)

“Damn it to hell!” I felt like I’d been kicked in the gut. Thinking about not having Devereux in my life hurt. My chest ached and my chin quivered as tears flowed down my cheeks. Wailing, sobbing, and sniffling, I gave myself permission to have a full-fledged pity party. I threw myself face-first into a pillow and made sounds I hadn’t heard coming from my mouth since I’d been a hormonal teenager.

A few minutes later, after I’d exhausted myself and stopped crying, the anger that had been waiting its turn stepped up. I sprang into a sitting position. “How dare he tell me he loved me, that I was his
mate
, then treat me so shittily!” I grabbed one of the pillows and started pounding the couch with it, screaming all the while. “What an idiot I’ve been! It was never about love, just control and some mysterious agenda.” I pounded harder. “Once again I’m the Homecoming Queen of the Failure Prom. Well, Mister Master Vampire, you can kiss your ulterior motive good-bye!” I lost my grip on the pillow and punched the couch with my fist until the anger gave way to more tears.

I sobbed for a few more minutes while the storm ran its course, then I stopped and stared at nothing, feeling utterly empty. I grabbed another tissue, which came away black with mascara when I wiped it under my eyes. “Great. I might as well look as bad as I feel.” I sniffled and snorted a few more times, thinking I should have known better than to believe I could attract a healthy relationship. Better to give up on men altogether.

I went through a few more tissues before it finally occurred to me that I’d been sitting there for a while and I had an appointment with Ham the hypnotherapist. Afraid I’d missed it, and disgusted with my self-pity, I jumped up and checked the clock. I was relieved to discover it was still very early—not even 7 a.m. yet. Which was also good because probably nobody else had been in the building to hear my breakdown. I cringed at the memory.

I made a quick pit stop in the bathroom, then gathered up my things, locked the office, and rode the mirrored elevator down to the underground parking area.

There were only a handful of other cars there besides mine. Since all of the businesses in the building—with the exception of my therapy practice—were run by Devereux and his various vampire employees, and they traveled via thought, few human vehicles were necessary. I shivered as I hurried to my car, my breath puffing out in the frigid air.

Thanks to several inches of fresh snow on the road, the timing of the traffic lights, and morning rush-hour congestion, it took longer than usual for me to drive the short distance between the office and my town house. To avoid a slow-moving snowplow, I turned onto the side streets. After a few minutes, I noticed a dark-blue SUV with a dented front fender behind me. I didn’t make anything of it at first—probably just a coincidence that the vehicle matched my turns and appeared to be heading for a similar destination. Odd, though, that it stayed so far back—too far away for me to see the driver clearly—and didn’t approach my bumper when we stopped at red lights. Feeling ridiculous and paranoid, but beginning to register anxiety, I made an unnecessary turn to see if the SUV would follow. It did.

Was someone tailing me after all?

My first thought was Lucifer, since he was the only one who’d made threats. But Lucifer couldn’t be out in the daytime. Or at least I hoped that was true. And besides, a vampire would simply flash through time and space. The idea that he’d choose to drive was ludicrous. Although I did have one client who collected human sports cars—he enjoyed reliving his human past—most wouldn’t be caught dead, so to speak, using such mundane transport.

I turned again, and the SUV followed.

What the hell?

This was definitely no coincidence. Could the driver be someone new Devereux had hired to keep an eye on me? It was possible. But why follow me so obviously all of a sudden? Was there some additional danger I didn’t know about?

Spotting a drive-through Starbucks up ahead, I turned into the driveway. The SUV rolled past. I hadn’t realized how tightly my stomach had been clenched until I huffed out a breath, releasing the tension. I laughed at myself. “Paranoid much, Kismet? I definitely need caffeine.”

Feeling like an idiot, I drove to the take-out window, ordered my coffee, and pulled back onto the street. I hadn’t gone a half-block when the now-familiar SUV appeared in my rearview mirror again.

The last thing I wanted was to guide some stalking stranger to my house. But if he worked for Devereux, he obviously already knew where I lived. What was I supposed to do? Drive around until the guy gave up and went away? Fat chance.

Lacking a better plan, I went home.

The SUV followed until I pulled into the alley behind my place to enter the garage. He—I had the sense the driver was male—didn’t turn in behind me.

A little while later, after showering and getting dressed, I headed out for my hypnotherapy appointment. Nobody followed me this time.

Dr. Taylor’s office was only a few blocks from mine, in a former bungalow converted into professional space. It sat on a corner lot at the intersection of two busy streets, and the cozy building looked out of place in a neighborhood filled with coffee shops, art galleries, and modern high-rises. I parked a half-block down the street and walked to his entrance. Thankfully the snow had stopped falling but more was forecast for later in the day.

There was a sign on the front door that said:

Welcome to the office of Dr. Hamilton Taylor.
Come in. Waiting room to the right.

I pushed the door open and was met with the aroma of cinnamon buns—or at least that’s what it smelled like to me. It was probably a scented candle, but I enjoyed the homey scent regardless.

A coat rack with one lone sweater on a hanger sat just inside the entryway. I walked to the first doorway on the right and entered the waiting room. Like many clinicians in private practice who didn’t want to hire a receptionist, Dr. Taylor had a system to alert him to the arrival of clients. Next to a closed door on the other side of the waiting room was a panel with a lighted button and a sign that said:
Please press this button when you arrive, and I’ll be with you shortly.
I knew the button would turn on a light in his office, which he would turn off when he came to get me. I’d considered asking Devereux if he could install one of those systems in my office, but Victoria, resident witch and building manager, was more than happy to call up and announce my daytime human clients. The vampires needed no announcement. They just popped in.

The waiting area consisted of one tan leather couch, four chairs in various shades of brown, a large square coffee table, two shelves filled with self-help books, and a wheeled cart with an espresso machine and a tall thermos of decaf coffee. The walls were covered with framed posters of Colorado mountain scenes. Soft Native American flute music flowed from speakers in the ceiling. The overall effect was a soothing, safe cocoon. Dr. Taylor certainly knew how to set a scene.

I’d just taken off my coat and laid it on one of the chairs when I heard the jiggle of a doorknob. I bent to retrieve my coat.

“Doctor Knight, I presume?” the deep voice asked.

“Yes.” Straightening, I turned toward the voice. My face must have been comical because Dr. Taylor laughed.

Standing in the doorway between the waiting room and his office was a tall brown-eyed man of about fifty. His long gray hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and his chin was whiter than the rest of his skin, giving evidence of the recent removal of a goatee. He was wearing false eyelashes, light-brown eye shadow, and rose lipstick, and his cheeks were dusted with a subtle blush of pink.

My eyes tracked down his body before I could stop the reflex action.

He was dressed in a lovely black skirt and jacket with a white blouse that buttoned snugly over his impressive breasts. Conservative black pumps completed the ensemble.

“Not what you expected, I’m sure.” He smiled. “Please call me Ham.” He thrust his hand out for me to shake.

I’d been so stunned by his appearance that I was standing speechless with my mouth open. It took a few seconds for me to grasp the hand he offered. “Er, it’s … nice to meet you, Ham,” I managed.

He’s transgendered?

He pointed to the inside of his office. “Please, come in.”

We walked into a very nicely furnished room suffused with the same kind of cozy feeling as the other parts of the building I’d seen so far.

He gestured toward a burgundy leather recliner chair. “Why don’t you make yourself comfortable?”

I looked back and forth between the chair and Ham, and couldn’t make up my mind what to do. Finally, out of politeness, I sat in the chair.

Well, my client did say Ham’s eccentric. Maybe this is what he meant.

Ham chose a nearby chair, sat, and crossed his legs. His legs were smooth.

Did I shave my legs today?

“I suppose I should have given you a heads-up about my situation so you could decide if you were willing to take a chance on me, but I simply forgot. I guess I don’t think about my outer appearance as much as I used to. I’m in the long, complicated process of preparing for sex-reassignment surgery, and I’ve been dressing as a female for several months now. You might be aware that as part of the requirements, I must practice being the gender I’m choosing. I’ll eventually have to take hormones for a while before the surgeons will agree to do the surgery.”

Not sure what to say, I simply fell into my usual role and nodded.

He smiled gently. “I can see I’ve surprised you, and you’re desperately trying to figure out what kind of reaction to have. Please let me put you at ease. Aside from my desire to have my outside match my inside, I’m a perfectly normal person.” He chuckled. “As normal as any clinician can be, anyway.” He picked up a notepad and pen. “Why don’t we begin and see how it goes?”

He thought I was surprised by his appearance, and his decision to become a woman, but that wasn’t the cause of my reaction at all. I’d worked with many transgender individuals and was familiar with their challenges, and as a psychotherapist I’d also learned to expect the unexpected. No. It was that once again, I’d been presented with evidence that I’d stopped attracting humdrum situations and people, and had shifted into the realm of the unique and interesting in more ways than just counseling vampires. I mean, what were the odds that I’d connect with a hypnotherapist courageous enough to show up authentically with strangers?

I studied him for a moment. “Okay. But I’d like to ask a question first.”

He tapped his pen on the pad nervously and appeared to brace himself for my words. “Certainly.”

“Why did you shave the goatee? I’ll bet it suited you.” I smiled.

He relaxed so much the pen fell out of his hand. He retrieved it and returned my smile. “That’s an excellent question. And the answer is because I was finally ready to take a significant step—to remove yet another sign of my former masculinity.” He mimed stroking the missing hair in question. “I thought it
did
suit me.” He laughed. “It’s been a babe magnet. I hesitated to let go of it until I was absolutely certain I was on the right path. Now that I’ve decided to become a babe myself, being clean-shaven was the natural next step. So I made an appointment with my barber, who happens to be my ex–brother-in-law, and celebrated chopping it off.”

“Congratulations. I know how difficult it can be to make such important decisions.”

“Thanks. Even harder is telling the woman I’ve been dating that after the operation, I’ll be a lesbian.” He grinned. “Lesbian. Saying that word is a dream come true.”

“So you’re woman-centered?”

“Yes. My sexual focus has never been in question. Only the genitals involved.”

Okay. This is starting to be TMI. I’m taking off my therapist’s hat now.

“Well, I hope everything works out,” I said, probably telegraphing my discomfort.

Picking up on it immediately, he straightened in his chair. “So, back to you. How can I help?”

“I’m not sure. You told me on the phone that you’re aware of my recent notoriety—the media frenzy about the so-called vampire murders around Halloween.”

“Yes. I was intrigued by the entire situation. What an interesting clientele you have, Doctor Knight. Vampire wannabes. I’ve worked with some blood-seeking goths myself, so I understand a little about the demographic. There was also one client who insisted he was a real vampire. Can you imagine?”

“Yes, I can, and at the risk of sounding mysterious and paranoid, I’m involved in a situation I can’t really talk about.”

“Legal issues? I don’t have to remind you that everything we discuss is totally confidential.”

Okay. Legal issues sounds good. …

“Of course, but after dealing with my fifteen minutes of fame a couple of months back, I lost some confidence. I started questioning my judgments, my ability to make good decisions about which clients to see. I’d like to utilize hypnosis to build up my intuition, my radar.”

“Are you familiar with hypnosis?”

“Yes—I’m a practitioner myself, and I realize all hypnosis is self-hypnosis, but I also subscribe to the notion that sometimes it’s very helpful to find a trusted professional and to allow oneself to be guided. To just
let go.”

“I couldn’t agree more.”

“Or at least that’s the theory, and what I tell clients. I’ve never asked anyone to hypnotize me before.”

His sculpted eyebrows rose. “I’m honored you chose me. I hope I can be helpful. So you don’t actually know how receptive you’ll be to trance-work?”

“I have a good imagination, and I have enjoyed using various self-hypnosis and guided-visualization CDs. Based on those experiences, I expect I’ll become more receptive over time, as we get to know each other.”
If we get to know each other.

“Good.” He lifted a microphone from the table and attached it to my jacket. “I’ll record the session so you can practice on your own.” He rose to turn on a small table lamp and shut off the rest of the lights in the room. He fetched a blanket from a cupboard, spread it over me, and pulled a chair next to the recliner. “I have an eye mask if you’d like one to help you cut off more sensory stimulation, but it might ruin your lovely makeup job.” He studied me. “You’ll simply have to tell me where you bought that gorgeous eye shadow.”