Blood Therapy (Kismet Knight, Ph.D., Vampire Psychologist) (3 page)

I decided to ignore the “mate” reference. He was exceptionally clever about sneaking that word into our conversations, although without ever explaining it, of course. I was beginning to realize that Devereux was astoundingly single-minded.

“A surprise?” My stomach tightened. Even the notion of what might constitute a
surprise
for a vampire made my mouth go dry. “What kind of surprise?” I did my best to keep suspicion out of my voice.

“Something that will appeal to your professional curiosity and provide you with additional information about my world,” he said, ignoring my inner fear-fest.

Hmm. That sounded reasonable enough—but I remembered the last time he’d offered to educate me about the vampire universe: by taking me to a protection ritual around Halloween he’d organized on my behalf that completely destroyed every idea I’d ever had about the nature of reality. The bizarre mix of bloodsuckers, magic, and the appearance of Devereux’s dead mother totally rewrote my inner script about
possible
versus
impossible
. And I was pretty sure it had permanently fried a few brain cells in the process.

“Yes.” He responded to my unvoiced concerns, frown lines once again creasing his brow. “The ritual was challenging for you. My world—the world of the vampires—bears little resemblance to that to which you are accustomed.” He smirked. “But as you have often said, you set yourself upon this course, so it behooves you to learn as much as you can about your preternatural clients.” He did that nifty Old-World head-bow thing again. “I am pleased to be able to assist in that endeavor.”

He still hadn’t told me what the surprise was. Why did I think I wasn’t going to like it? “This surprise will appeal to my professional curiosity? What does that mean, exactly?”

“You shall accompany me to a vampiric handfasting ceremony, the bonding of two important immortals—a pagan wedding. The rite is ancient and intimate. You will witness things no mortal has ever seen.”

And lived to tell about it, I’ll bet. …

I became temporarily distracted by a mental horror movie featuring hundreds of vampires feasting on the blood of enchanted, unwilling humans. Then the scene quickly shifted to another, this one of hapless mortals being thrown into pits filled with ravenous bloodsuckers in a feeding frenzy—

“Kismet?” Devereux tapped my shoulder, his face a mask of distaste. “I fear you are doomed to disappointment if that is what you are expecting to find at the gathering. It is for all intents and purposes a simple party.”

“A
simple
party?” My laugh held a sardonic incredulity that I suspected would tick him off. “Like the last event you brought me to was a
simple
ritual?”

Clearly impatient, he rose, circled to the front of my desk, and shook his finger at me. He’d just opened his mouth to respond when a familiar bloodsucker-moving-through-time-and-space
pop!
preceded the arrival of a beefy long-haired vampire.

The unexpected visitor materialized near Devereux and bowed from the waist, sending purple-streaked black hair cascading to the floor. “Excuse me, Master, but your attention is needed in the shipping area. The coffins you ordered have arrived.”

“Why does that require my attention?” Devereux barked. “Deliveries of all kinds take place every night. You may sign for the merchandise, as always.” He flicked his fingers in dismissal.

“There’s a problem, Master.” The messenger fidgeted, twisting his hands together, his eyes wide. “It appears the coffins are already … occupied.”

“Occupied?” Devereux stared at the messenger for a few seconds.

It took me a moment to realize he was reading the other vampire’s mind. “What’s going on?” I asked halfheartedly. As curious as I always was about the things vampires didn’t say out loud, I really couldn’t get too enthusiastic about anything having to do with coffins—especially occupied ones. I had started to realize there were things I
really
didn’t need to know—at least if I wanted to stay sane. Could a human brain even process such an unnatural experience as the one I’d stumbled into? I wondered what would happen to mine if I kept trying. Maybe that was what Devereux meant by
esoteric information
. Could someone truly be driven mad by exploring a nonhuman reality? There’d been no mention of that possibility in any of the popular vampire movies.

“It looks like there was a mix-up at the mortuary, and instead of sending six empty coffins as usual, they mistakenly delivered the remains of half a dozen humans who perished in the recent cult suicides here in Denver.”

I cringed at the reference to the grisly event currently saturating the daily news. Yet another charismatic guru had convinced his flock that death was the answer. Funny thing, though—the leader himself hadn’t smoked any of the tainted marijuana.

Six empty coffins?
As usual?
I wondered what story Devereux had told the mortician to explain why he needed regular deliveries. Of course, he probably didn’t have to say anything—he could use his handy little mind-control trick. Or maybe the funeral home director wasn’t human. I still wasn’t used to how many vampires nested in the Mile High City.

“I am sorry, Kismet,” said Devereux, sighing, “but once again duty calls. It is important for me to confront the mortuary director in person. He has been creating problems, behaving erratically. We will exchange the coffins and erase the memories of any mortals involved.” He lifted my hand and kissed it. “I shall call for you at your home soon and look forward to sharing many uninterrupted hours together.” He sent a silent message to the other vampire, who disappeared, then turned back to me. “Until then.”

“Wait!” I hurried from behind the desk and grabbed his arm. “What should I wear to this
simple party
?” I imagined something floor-length, with long sleeves and a high collar. A very high collar. Or maybe a hazmat suit. Hopefully I wouldn’t be the entrée. I trusted Devereux to keep me safe from his less-civilized minions, but I’d learned that his ideas of “normal” inhabited a far different galaxy from mine.

“Ah, yes, thank you for reminding me. Your clothing for the event has been transported to your bedroom. You will find everything you need. And please, wear your protective pentagram. Now, if you will excuse me—”

Why did he mention the pentagram if this is just a simple party?

He vanished.

I
was surprised and pleased to find my town house pretty much as I’d left it.

No bodyguard vampires camped out in my living room. No undead handmaidens ordered by Himself to attend to my every need. No snarly Luna—Devereux’s personal assistant and evil human-hating bigot—waiting for an excuse to relieve me of my O positive.

I’d had a talk with
the Master
about his tendency to be overbearing, to assume he knew more about what was best for me than I did, and he’d sworn to respect my personal space. Of course, what that meant to a vampire was anybody’s guess. In his defense, it had to be a challenge to stop giving orders after centuries of doing so, but I could tell he was trying.

He was true to his word about my clothing, though: a stunning silver dress shimmered like liquid mercury on my bed. I lifted the silky moonlight by the shoulders and held it up to eye level. So much for my high-collar fantasy. The only way to transform this beyond-plunging neckline into something less fang-tempting was to wear a turtleneck sweater underneath it.

I was thankful my mother’s contributions to my DNA hadn’t started to droop yet, because apparently a bra was out of the question.

Despite the plunging neckline, I had to admit the dress was beautiful, and my wish for a floor-length skirt and long sleeves had been fulfilled.

A matching hooded cloak lay draped over the back of a chair. Silver stiletto-heeled sandals sat conspicuously next to my dresser. I’d just pulled my hair up into a bun and pivoted to head into the bathroom for a quick shower when something glittery caught my eye. I moved over to the nightstand to find an antique-looking necklace, a large cross—at least three inches long—made of what appeared to be diamonds.

Devereux never ceased to amaze me.

He’d explained religious symbols had no effect—negative or positive—on vampires, so it wasn’t likely he expected me to fend off his bloodsucking colleagues by waving the necklace at them. But as clever and intelligent as Devereux was, he didn’t have much of a sense of humor, so why would he give me a cross? I scooped it into my hand to test the substantial weight. I didn’t even want to think about the fortune that would be dangling in my cleavage.

And he needn’t have reminded me to wear the pentagram necklace. At my request he’d removed the spell he cast on the symbol that had made it a permanent accessory, thereby forcing me to wear it. But after the insanity with Lucifer, one of the evil personalities of the maniac who’d stalked me and almost killed Devereux, I never removed the charm from around my neck. I’d take any edge I could get.

The fact that Devereux forgot I always wore it provided more evidence of his distracted state of mind. I hadn’t known him long enough to have any meaningful opinions about his
normal
behaviors, but he’d been setting off my therapist’s alarm since he recovered. I knew the crazed Lucifer wouldn’t give up so easily—I’d become a psychological fixation for the mad killer—and I was glad to have magical protection while I studied everything I could about the various forms of Dissociative Identity Disorder, formerly known as Multiple Personality Disorder. Not that gathering knowledge would keep me safe from the horrifying lunatic, but delving into familiar subject matter gave me the illusion of control in the midst of the chaos.

After I finished my shower, I wet the ends of my long hair so the curls would re-form and reapplied my makeup—opting for a more dramatic look than usual, given the circumstances. I focused on accenting my sky-blue eyes, which stood out against my pale skin and dark hair. I’d noticed mascara was plentiful at vampire gatherings. Maybe the undead owned stock in some of the various cosmetic companies. Studying myself in the mirror, my reflection reminded me of Margaret Keane’s “Waif” paintings. The subjects of her portraits expressed both wide-eyed wonder and stunned horror. I wondered which description applied to me.

I was halfway through shaking several aspirin into my palm when I realized the headache had almost vanished. Only a vague, spacey sensation remained, along with a slight tension at the base of my neck.

“Well, yay! The hot shower did the trick!”

Had it really been less than three months since I’d fallen through the vampiric Looking Glass and landed in a dark night of the soul? I didn’t understand why such frightening things fascinated me. Why in the world would I choose to hang out with predatory blood-drinking creatures? Did I have a death wish? If I were my client, I’d wonder if I had something to prove.

But then, how many therapists ever got the opportunity to explore a nonhuman species and write about it? Wouldn’t it be professionally irresponsible of me to pass on the chance? Scientists put themselves in harm’s way all the time. No guts, no glory.

Thinking about the bizarre research lottery I’d won made me wish I could tell my therapist, Nancy, the truth about my vampire clients and my new …
boyfriend
,
for lack of a better word
.
That conversation would be worth recording with my cell phone camera. “Oh, by the way, Nancy,” I said aloud. “I forgot to tell you I’ve been treating actual vampires. Authentic fanged nightwalkers. The so-called bloodsucking fiends we all know and fear. Despite their negative PR, turns out they aren’t all horrible monsters. Some are actually afraid of the dark or terrified of blood.

“And not only are vampires real, I’m having mad, passionate sex with the Grand Pooh-Bah. Not to mention the fact that I let him drink my blood. And I like it!” I laughed, thinking about the expression on her face. Of course, I’d only be laughing until the men with the straitjacket and the butterfly net arrived. After that, I’d be making clay animals, staring out of the window, and swallowing my meds like a good girl in one of Denver’s psych wards.

Needing someone to talk to had become a serious problem. There was always Lieutenant Bullock, the cop I’d worked with during the paranormal murders back in October. She knew the truth about the vampires. As did Cerridwyn, a savvy tarot reader whose psychic abilities were second only to Devereux’s. Or maybe my trusty FBI friend, profiler, and forensic psychologist Alan Stevens. But I didn’t feel I could confide totally in any of them, Lieutenant Bullock and Cerridwyn because I didn’t know either well enough to share intimate details, and Alan because, well, Alan and I had some unfinished personal business of our own. I doubted if he’d enjoy hearing about Devereux.

Maybe there’d never be anyone I could talk to.

I took a breath to dispel the morbid thoughts, clicked on the radio, and stepped into the silver gown. The snug fabric molded to my upper body and hips, then flared out into a fluid skirt. It fit perfectly. Of course, it would. Devereux never missed.

The stiletto heels added inches to my usual five feet, eight inches. I’d become better at walking in the wobbly shoes but appreciated not having to when I was with Devereux, thanks to the vampire ability to move via thought. There was nothing like the fear of falling off one’s footwear to heighten the appeal of flashing through time and space.

The mercurial gown’s daring V-shaped neckline plunged down below my navel. If the material hadn’t been so tight, Mother Nature’s bounty would have been in danger of bursting free, causing me to draw more attention to myself than I already would by being mortal. Just to be safe, I decided to apply two-sided tape on the inside of the dress to keep the fabric anchored on the modest side of my nipples.

The radio station played number thirty-five of the Top 100 songs of the past fifty years. I couldn’t resist spinning in a circle, enjoying the sensation of the silky skirt floating out around me as I sang along with an old Beatles tune my parents often listened to. Not being particularly graceful, I wasn’t much of a dancer, but it was fun to move.