Blood Therapy (Kismet Knight, Ph.D., Vampire Psychologist) (25 page)

“Okay.” Deciding to throw caution to the wind, I slid out of the booth and held up my briefcase. “I need to go up to my room, drop this off, and grab my coat. I’ll meet you in the lobby in ten minutes.”

“It’s a date.”

The elevator was full, and the ride up was glacial and uncomfortable, someone entering or leaving at practically every floor. At one stop, a man in a World War II army uniform walked in through an exiting couple and stood half-in, half-out of a portly businessman who gave no indication he was even remotely aware of his new appendage.

I sighed. It was going to be a long conference. Of course this had to be a haunted hotel.

Happily, Ingrid Bergman hadn’t followed me to my new room and—for the moment—I was the only inhabitant.

After I refreshed my makeup, used a hair pick on my curls, and changed into the flat-heeled black leather boots I’d worn on the plane—not great for cold weather but hopefully we wouldn’t be outdoors long—I grabbed my coat, shoved a red wool hat and gloves into one pocket, filled my jeans pockets with money, cell phone, and the room keycard, then wrapped a multicolored scarf around my neck.

I was ready to play. Gee, having fun—what a foreign concept.

Michael walked toward the elevator as the doors opened, and I spontaneously laughed. He’d dressed himself like Nanook of the North. He had on so many layers, I was surprised he could even move.

“What’s so funny?” he asked, pretending to be offended. “I just don’t like to be cold. Come on.” He linked his arm through mine, once again behaving like his charming self. “The woman at the desk said there’s a great nightclub just a block down, and aside from the odd pickpocket, she thinks we should be safe enough.”

Looks like he’s rediscovered his courage. Let’s hope there’s no reason to challenge it.

We strolled down the street, our breath clouding in the frigid air as we joked and made comments about the contents of the retail windows. It had to be near zero degrees.

Heavy bass reverberated through the walls as we approached a building sporting a neon “Retro Dance Club” sign.

“This must be the place,” Michael said.

I listened for a few seconds. “Sounds like the Rolling Stones—‘Miss You.’ This should be fun.”

“How do you know that tune? It’s older than you are.”

“I’d know that distinctive bass line anywhere. My parents had an extensive record collection—the vinyl kind. I grew up listening to music from the sixties and seventies.” I laughed. “I have a photo of my geeky scientist parents taken at a disco. If I ever need to blackmail them, that’s the one I’ll use.”

A blast of heat almost pushed us back outside again as we entered the huge nightclub. The room was packed with bodies, dancers boogying wherever they could find a spot.

We peeled off our winter gear at the cloakroom and checked it in. Then we wove through the mayhem and found an empty table in the undesirable corner near the door to the kitchen, which also happened to be underneath one of the enormous wall-mounted speakers.

The DJ, a tall African American guy with a retro afro that stood out a good twelve inches from his head, grooved on a raised stage, boxed into his electronic universe by sound equipment of all kinds. Every few seconds he flicked some switches and colored lights flashed on and off, illuminating a glittering oversized disco ball hanging from the center of the ceiling.

“Wow,” Michael yelled as we settled into our chairs, “we’ve entered some kind of time warp.”

The music was too loud for conversation, so I just nodded.

A waitress appeared to take our drink orders, and I leaned back against the wall, watching the waitstaff pass our table carrying trays of bar food from the kitchen. The smell of grease oozed out every time the door opened. My clothes and hair were going to smell like a Dumpster by the end of the night. At least there was no smoking allowed in the club.

“Hey!” Michael waved his hand in front of my face and pointed to the dancers. “Wanna dance?”

We squished into the pulsing mob as the DJ segued seamlessly from the Stones to “Stayin’ Alive” by the Bee Gees, which I viewed as a cosmic message especially for me, then into other disco hits. Michael and I danced through them all, sweat dripping down our faces, detouring over to our table every so often to chug down the wine we’d ordered. During the last song, Michael had started bumping my hip with his in some form of dance movement I wasn’t familiar with. Each time he bumped, he laughed, which proved to be contagious. It was such a relief to relax and be silly for a little while.

After a couple of hours, despite the perspiration and the exercise, the wine had done its job—I was officially buzzed. I knew alcohol wasn’t a good way to quench thirst or stave off dehydration, but it had been so long—maybe years—since I’d last cut loose and tied one on. After all the paranormal madness of the past few months, didn’t I deserve some downtime? I was so tired of thinking about vampires. Weary of being so responsible. Maybe if I drank enough, I’d blot the undead totally out of my mind.

I tugged Michael’s arm, pulling him back to the table, then pointed to the restrooms. He mouthed “okay,” and sat.

I’d just turned to head toward the women’s bathroom when I saw Lucifer across the room. I stopped dead, held my breath, and pressed my hand to my mouth to stifle the scream that threatened to erupt. I flicked my gaze back over my shoulder to check if Michael had noticed my reaction, but he hadn’t. And when I looked again, Lucifer was gone.

Shuffling around the edges of the crowd, I scanned for the bald head, but didn’t find it. Had I really seen him? Or had the stress, and alcohol, and my altered mind made me hallucinate? Was I so afraid of him that I’d imagined him coming after me? It would be horrible if all the brain trauma I’d experienced around the vampires caused me to exhibit signs of schizophrenia. One consolation: if I developed a severe mental illness, I wouldn’t have to worry about anybody else’s energy warping my mind.

After looking around a bit more, I hurried to the bathroom then walked back to the table, constantly scanning the dark room for the maniac. By the time I sat down, I’d half-convinced myself I was just seeing things that weren’t there. A trick of the flashing lights in my eyes.

Shaking my head to clear some of the alcohol haze, I tried to logically dissect the situation. Either I’d had so much wine that I’d imagined my worst nightmare or I’d really seen him. Since I didn’t know which option was true, obviously I needed an outside opinion. I pulled out my cell phone to call Alan, still searching the crowd for the dreaded face, but I couldn’t get a signal. Damn. I’d have to see if Michael’s phone could pick up in here.

“Listen,” I started, hoping he wouldn’t ask me to explain, “I’ve just remembered I need to leave someone a message and my cell phone’s dead—can I borrow yours? I’ll only be a moment.”

“Sure.” He dug out his iPhone and handed it over. “My turn for the john,” he added, leaping off the chair and threading his way to the men’s room.

Alan must have been using his phone because I went immediately to voice mail.

“Alan?” I slurred, yelling over the music. “Hey, it’s me. Kismet. I’m at a disco down the street from the hotel and I might have seen Lucifer. He might be here in the club. I’ve had a little wine … well, okay, a
lot
of wine, and I’m not sure if I saw him or if he was a figment of my pickled brain. Can you come over and see if he’s here?”

I disconnected then said, “Okay, bye.”

The full glass of wine in front of me on the table no longer held any appeal, and I pushed it away.

Too bad there wasn’t a cell phone number I could call to reach Devereux. I was sure he had one, but he’d never given it to me. Why should he? He’d assumed he would always be able to read my mind and know exactly what I was thinking before I did.

Remembering the cross, I tugged it from underneath my blouse, held it in my hand, and said his name silently. I waited expectantly for him to pop in. Nothing. Then I tapped the bejeweled thing, saying, “Hello? Devereux? Come in, Devereux.” I raised it to my ear, listening for a few seconds before shoving it back under my shirt.

“Damn necklaces! What good are they? One has to be touched directly, and the other apparently doesn’t work at all!”

“Who are you talking to?” Michael asked as he plopped onto his seat.

“Myself, of course. Drunk people do it all the time.” I handed his phone back. “Thanks for this.”

He tucked it away and stood up again. “Ready to get back on the dance floor?” he hollered over the music.

“No. I think we should go back to the hotel now.”

“What? Why? We’re having fun. Aren’t you having fun?”

I couldn’t tell him the real reason I wanted to leave, and my addled brain wasn’t capable of thinking fast enough to make up anything beyond one level of truth. “I’ve drunk too much. I need to go and sleep this off.”

He held out his hand. “In that case it’s even more important you dance off some more of the alcohol. Come on, just a little while longer.”

Staying really didn’t sound like a good idea, but since I’d called Alan and asked him to come, maybe I should wait a bit before leaving. Might as well take Michael’s advice and burn off some more of the wine while I watched for the fiend.

I nodded, and he gave a thumbs-up gesture, then pulled me into the writhing crowd. We danced through several more songs. Michael was having such a good time that he didn’t appear to notice my preoccupation.

The DJ was talking into his microphone, and I looked up at the stage. Lurking in the corner, partially hidden by the black drapes, was Lucifer.

I stumbled and blinked a couple of times. He was gone. I hated the thought that the disgusting bloodsucker was in my brain. He wasn’t the kind of fantasy image I wanted to conjure for myself.

Clearly I had to extricate myself from the madness. If I kept on stressing about Lucifer and all the other vampire crap, I’d either have a stroke or a psychotic break. If I hadn’t already.

“What’s going on, Kismet?” Michael said. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“The lights and shadows are playing tricks on me.” That was true as far as it went.

We danced through several more songs, Michael giggling and acting like a kid. I focused on contacting Alan and wished my life was as carefree as the lives of the other dancers appeared to be.

Come on, Alan! Call me! Why aren’t my mystical psychic powers working this time? And why don’t you check your voice mail?

Over the next half hour I imagined seeing Lucifer several more times. Once I thought I saw him actually imitate John Travolta’s
Saturday Night Fever
dance pose from the movie poster tacked on the wall near the women’s bathroom. I probably hadn’t really seen that, either.

Under any other circumstance something so ludicrous would have been funny, but now I interpreted the vision as more evidence of the destruction of my brain. Each sighting lasted a few seconds then faded away—a sure sign of a hallucination. I grew so used to glimpsing his ghastly form among the dancers that at one point I wondered if he’d died and become a wispy apparition and that’s why I could see him. Wishful thinking.

The DJ played a slow song, and Michael slid his arms around me.

“What are you doing?” I asked, leaning back.

“Don’t you like to slow dance?” He pulled me close again.

“No—I mean, yes—but I don’t want to.” I pushed against his chest. “I want to leave now.” Obviously, nobody was coming to help.

He released me and stared at my face. “You do look wiped out. We’d better get you back to the hotel.”

“Thank you.” Would the Lucifer hallucination follow me back to my room?

He took my hand and walked me over to our table. A horrible odor wafted into my nose.

“Jesus H. Christ,” Michael said. “Either the toilet’s backed up or someone’s had an accident on the floor.”

I spun a little too quickly to investigate, lost my balance, and pushed my palms out in front of me to catch myself. They came to rest on the foul, blistered chest of the bald lunatic Lucifer. The moment I touched him, my gaze flicked up to his, which widened in surprise. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw someone who looked like Devereux reaching for Lucifer.

Then I felt the familiar sense of being in an elevator as I shifted through space.

Everything went dark.

I
ncredibly cold.

That was my first realization as I woke outside, sprawled on my back in the snow on the frozen ground, half under a bush.

My body was shaking so hard my heels were clicking against the ice.

The last thing I remembered was being in the disco and imagining seeing Lucifer again. No, wait—that wasn’t a hallucination. It was real. I touched him. I had disgusting decomposing death-cooties on my hands. He must have taken me somewhere. What happened to Michael? Did the monster kill him? And all the people in the club? Was Devereux really there?

I scooted out from underneath the bush and sat up. I definitely wasn’t in the club anymore. The movement caused my headache to explode and my stomach to heave. Grabbing my hair, I leaned to the side just in time to throw up on the ground next to me.

After everything that was going to come up did so, I dragged myself a few inches away, then pulled my hair back into a ponytail and shoved it inside the collar of my blouse. I wanted to be ready in case my stomach went for an encore.

As I sat, trembling and trying to catch my breath, an old homeless man dressed in a ragged coat, duct-taped plastic boots, and one tattered glove wandered over and stared down at me. We looked at each other for a few seconds, then he held out a filthy rag.

He’d probably seen me vomit and wanted to offer his … handkerchief … for me to wipe my mouth. I really didn’t want to touch the dirty fabric, but even in my discombobulated state I couldn’t bring myself to be rude.

“Thank you,” I said, reaching up for the rag.

My hand went right though it.

I let my arm drop and looked at the phantom. He continued to shake the rag in my face, a sad expression on his. Apparently he really was trying to help.