Blood Therapy (Kismet Knight, Ph.D., Vampire Psychologist) (26 page)

“Thanks, I appreciate it. But if you really want to help me, tell me where I am or how to get back to the Briarwood Hotel.”

He nodded vigorously and shook the rag to my right, also pointing with his other hand.

“The hotel is that way?” I said, looking in the direction he’d indicated, shivering so badly I could barely speak.

He jerked his head and pointed again.

I climbed to my feet, managed to remain vertical, and started stumbling in that direction. I turned around to thank him again and he was gone.

At least throwing up and freezing had taken the edge off my intoxication, and I soon realized I was in a park. The logical assumption would be that I was in Central Park, but there was no limit to how far in time or space Lucifer might have transported me. I wondered how long I’d been lying on the ground, and how quickly someone could die from hypothermia. Why had he taken me, then abandoned me? The last time he kidnapped me, he’d held me captive in an ancient crypt filled with dead bodies. This experience was anticlimactic, to say the least.

What did it mean that I was getting used to all the vampire insanity? Had I resolved myself to my doom?

But logic prevailed. I
was
in Central Park, and a short walk brought me out of the trees directly across from the nightclub. Michael was standing in front, clutching my belongings to his chest.

“Kismet!” he yelled when he saw me. Dodging cars, he ran across the street, dropped my clothes in a heap, then threw his arms around me. “Christ, Kismet—where the fuck did you go? One minute you were there, and the next you were gone. Did that big ugly guy pull you out of the club? I didn’t even have time to react.”

I tried to talk, but my teeth were chattering too hard.

“Shit. You’re freezing.” He quickly dressed me in my jacket, then tugged on my coat, stuck the knit hat on my head, and wound the scarf around my neck. Then he wrapped me in his arms again. “You really scared the fuck out of me. Let’s go back to the hotel and warm you up.”

“How long was I gone?” I mumbled.

“About twenty minutes. I was ready to call the police.”

What the hell? Why did Lucifer snatch me if he was only going to drop me in the park? Maybe he was losing more of his mind than he’d already lost. Lucky for me.

My legs were stiff, and my feet were blocks of ice, so I couldn’t move very quickly. Michael pulled me along with his arm around my shoulders. Instead of trying to weave through the cars as he had before, we hurried along to a crossing and waited for the light to change, then hustled across. We made it to the hotel faster than it had taken us to walk in the other direction hours earlier.

It occurred to me that I probably didn’t smell very good after hurling in the park, but there wasn’t anything I could do about it for the moment.

Michael kept up a running monologue during the whole trip. “I feel like such a wimpy asshole, not even able to keep you safe in a crowded nightclub. Some friend I am. I wouldn’t blame you if you never wanted to have anything to do with me again. I was afraid New York City would be dangerous. Now I’m acting like the stereotype of a gay drama queen, but I don’t care. Did he hurt you? Oh, God, I’ll bet he did. We probably need to go to the hospital to have you checked out. …”

I tuned out after that. I didn’t have any idea what had happened.

We crossed the lobby, called the elevator, and rode up to my floor. Nobody held their noses and ran away, so maybe I wasn’t as stinky as I feared.

Pausing in front of my door, Michael said, “Where’s your keycard?”

I slowly flexed my still-frozen fingers to make them useful, unbuttoned my coat, then reached into my jeans pocket for the card and handed it to Michael. He opened the door, and we were both surprised to see Alan sitting on the edge of the bed, watching television.

Alan smiled, then took a better look at me and my companion, frowned, and strode over to us. “What the hell, Kismet? What’s wrong? Who is this guy? Where have you been? I’ve been waiting for hours.”

“I ca … ca … ca …” I said, unable to force my lips to form the words to let him know I’d tried to call him.

“Ca ca? What?” Alan asked, sounding exasperated.

“I’m Doctor Michael Parker, a colleague of Kismet’s. You must be her FBI friend,” Michael said as he guided me over to the bed and sat me down. “We went to a nightclub, and something weird happened. One minute she was there, and the next she was gone.”

Alan knelt in front of me and said in a hostile tone, “What’s he talking about?”

My teeth were still chattering so I just shook my head.

“Let’s get her something warm to drink, and I’ll tell you what little I know.” Michael headed over to the shelves under the television and retrieved the coffee and tea supplies. He opened a tea bag, set it in a cup, pulled a bottle of water from the mini-refrigerator, poured the water, and put the cup in the microwave. The height of efficiency.

Alan followed Michael’s movements, scowling. “What were you two doing at a dance club?”

“Dancing,” I croaked.

“Very funny,” Alan said, giving Michael the evil eye. “I meant, why were you with
him
?”

I pointed to the blanket folded at the foot of the other bed. Alan grabbed it and tucked it around me.

“Thank you,” I said, starting to thaw out.

When the microwave dinged, Michael fetched the tea. “Oh, now this is just a little too hot.” He poured some of the remaining cold bottled water into the tea. “Okay, I think this is good. Here, Kismet.” He handed me the cup and sat on the bed next to me.

Not to be outdone, Alan sat on my other side.

Michael patted my knee, and Alan made a growling sound.

“Michael, is it?” Alan said.

Michael nodded and looked annoyed.

I wrapped my hands around the steaming cup and drank my tea, wishing they’d both be quiet. I didn’t have the energy to deal with a testosterone-fueled pissing contest. I’d have to get Michael out of the room pretty soon so I could talk to Alan about whatever bizarre thing happened with Lucifer.

“Just how good a friend of Kismet’s
are
you?” Alan asked, his tone unfriendly.

“We met on the plane coming to the conference.” Michael cleared his throat. “I didn’t catch your name.”

“Special Agent Alan Stevens. Doctor Stevens.”

Geez. This
mine is bigger
competition could go on all night.

“I can take it from here, Doctor Parker.” Alan rubbed his hand up and down my back.

“I really think I ought to stay for a while, Agent Stevens, just to make sure Doctor Knight is okay.”

“I’ll make sure she’s okay, so—”

Now sufficiently thawed and irritated, I got up, kicked the blanket out of the way, and set the remaining tea on the cabinet. I walked into the bathroom and heard Alan say my name as the door clicked shut. They were still arguing as I turned on the hot water in the shower. The sound of the spray drowned out their voices.

While the room filled with steam, I brushed my teeth—twice—then swished mouthwash. I undressed and stepped gratefully into the shower.

It took several minutes of standing in the hot water before I finally felt defrosted all the way to my bones. My hair smelled like grease from sitting so close to the kitchen at the dance club so I washed and conditioned it, then soaped my body. By the time I stepped out, I felt mostly human again. Except for the unavoidable effects of having ingested too many glasses of wine. My stomach was churning, and my head throbbed. I knew I’d be hungover in the morning—if I made it through the night.

I turned off the water and listened. Surely they couldn’t still be arguing after all the time I’d been in the bathroom. Silence. Maybe they were gone. I rooted through my cosmetic case, found the aspirin bottle, and took four pills. The aspirin wouldn’t keep me from reaping the rewards of my idiotic behavior, but it might control the headache. I always hated the floaty, surreal feeling I got when I overindulged.

“Crap,” I said aloud, when I remembered I didn’t have any clean clothes in the bathroom. I wrapped a large, thick towel around me, then wrangled a wide-toothed pick through my snarled hair.

Figuring I might as well get it over with, I opened the door and stuck my head out, expecting—due to the quiet—to find an empty room.

Alan and Michael were still sitting on the end of the bed, where I’d left them. They wore matching scowling expressions as they stared at the muted television.

They both looked at me when I entered, then their mouths dropped open. I guess they hadn’t expected me to walk out in a towel.

I went to the closet, pulled the fluffy white robe off the hanger, and slipped it on. With my back to them, I released the towel and tossed it into the bathroom, then tied the robe’s belt securely around my waist.

“How do you feel?” Michael asked at the same time Alan said, “Are you okay?”

Feeling both relaxed and sleepy, I shuffled over to the couch by the window and sat. “I’m fine. Yes, I’m okay.”

“What happened?” Michael asked. “Do you remember?”

I shot Alan a covert look to let him know there was more to the story, then said to Michael, “I don’t know what happened. Maybe I just drank too much and wandered out of the club. You shouldn’t feel badly, Michael—it was my own fault for drinking half the club’s wine supply.”

He shook his head, a clear look of disbelief on his face. “No. I don’t think so. I saw that big bald guy behind you. You pushed him, and then you both … disappeared. You didn’t leave the club by yourself, I’m sure.”

Great. I had no desire to be rude, but the last thing I wanted to do was try to make up some lame story for Michael’s benefit.

Tugging my robe tighter around me, I sighed loudly. “Maybe I’ll remember more in the morning, Michael, but right now my brain’s in an alcohol fog. Would you mind if we picked this up later?”

He looked at me, then at Alan. “Okay.” He stood. “I can take a hint—you two want to be alone. I’m not always this dense. I was just worried about you.”

Geez. Now I feel guilty. It’s a pain in the ass to have such an overactive conscience. We do want to be alone, but not for the reason you think.

“I appreciate that. I promise to tell you whatever I remember when I see you at the conference tomorrow.”

“I’ll definitely be there for your presentation.”

“Presentation?”

“Wow,” he said, frowning, “you
are
impaired. I’m talking about your
Lost Children of the Night
lecture tomorrow afternoon. I can’t wait.”

Is tomorrow Friday already? Oh, shit!

“Me either,” said Alan with a smirk.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” Michael said as he walked toward the door. “I’ll let myself out. See you tomorrow.” He paused and turned toward us. “Nice to meet you, Agent Stevens.” It didn’t take a psychologist to hear the lie in his words.

When the door closed, Alan bounded off the end of the bed and hurried to join me on the couch.

“Okay, cut the bullshit,” Alan said. “What really happened? Was it Lucifer?”

“I think so.”

“You
think
so? Why didn’t you call me?”

“I
did
call you. I left a message.”

He grabbed his phone from his pocket. “No way. You didn’t leave a message. I checked …” He pressed a button, and my voice, almost indistinguishable over the loud music, blared from the tiny speaker. He listened then looked at me. “Shit. Was that you? I couldn’t understand what the person was saying. I thought it was a wrong number, some drunk moron in a bar somewhere.”

“Well, you got that part right.”

He leaned in and gave me a hug. “I’m sorry. I screwed up. I should have gone looking for you. What the hell happened?”

“I kept seeing Lucifer at the dance club, but only quick glimpses, and then he was gone. I was never sure if I really saw him or if the alcohol and stress were making me hallucinate.” I rubbed my forehead, trying to remember what would happen if I took more aspirin already. “He was usually too far away for me to tell if he was real. And I
had
sucked down a lot of wine.”

“Yeah, about that—why were you out drinking and dancing with pretty boy? I thought you’d want to hear what happened after my mother showed up and whisked me away.” A hurt expression shadowed his face.

“Hey, how was I supposed to know when—or even
if
—you’d be back? I just wanted to have a little fun. And anyway, what right do you have to give me the third degree? Why am I always attracting men who think they can tell me what to do?” I snugged my robe tighter and pressed my lips together.

“Okay, you’re right—I’m sorry. I didn’t call you after I left, so you couldn’t know when I’d be back. Please finish telling me about Lucifer.”

I pouted a few seconds longer then picked up my story. “Just when I’d convinced myself my eyes were playing tricks on me, I smelled him.”

Alan grimaced. “Eau de sewer.”

“You got it. Michael said something about the toilet overflowing, and I turned too fast, lost my balance, and pressed my hands against Lucifer’s slimy chest.”

“And then he took you?”

“I guess so. What else could have happened? But the really strange thing was that when I touched him and looked up at his face, he seemed surprised to find me there. That was the last thing I remember until I woke up across the street in the park.”

“In the park?”

“Yeah. I resurfaced lying on the frozen ground under a bush. Then I threw up.”

“Thanks for that detail.”

“You’re welcome.” I smiled for the first time since I’d left the nightclub.

“How did you know where you were? Lucifer could have dropped you anywhere.”

“That thought occurred to me, but I got directions back to the hotel from a homeless ghost who came to offer assistance.”

“A homeless ghost? Really?” A grin lit up his face. “You do have the most interesting experiences.”

“Oh yeah—ghosts and vampires. What woman wouldn’t want that?”

He scooted closer and draped his arm around my shoulders. “Don’t forget psychics and witches.”

“Uh-huh. And transgender hypnotherapists. Well, one, anyway.”