Me? Not so much.
After staying silent under my chastising glare, Mari finally caved.
“I know,” she said, her gaze twinkling—with mischief, not contrition. “Derogatory language is a subtle but damaging way to assert our superiority over people who deserve nothing less than our compassion and assistance.”
“Glad you’ve been listening.”
I looked back down at the paperwork, but I knew she was rolling her eyes. I’d taken over the Dante Clinic only three weeks ago—mere days after Dr. Laurence had died unexpectedly in his sleep. I’d managed to skate into the first of December without anyone dying or anything blowing up. So, you know, huzzah an’ all. Poor Dr. Laurence had been in his late fifties, and had died from cardiac arrest. We should all be lucky to go that peaceably. There were worse ways to die.
My stomach took a dive as an unwanted image flashed: the knife in my hand, the gleam in Robert’s eye, the blood spilling over both of us.
No. You will not go there, Kel.
I stepped off that particular dark mental path and circled back to something less soul crushing.
When Jarred Dante approached me, I was living in Tulsa and working for a nonprofit medical clinic. It didn’t pay well, but I couldn’t complain since I hadn’t expected to work as a therapist ever again. I was one paycheck away from being destitute—I’d been sued numerous times and I lost every case. How could a conscientious jury not punish the therapist who’d failed to treat the evil Robert Mallard—especially after hearing from the grieving families of his victims? I would’ve nailed my ass to the wall, too. I lost everything. My practice. My new house. My Mercedes. Even my clothes.
Someone had to be blamed. Robert was dead. And I was the only visceral link left to the tragedies he’d caused. It had not mattered that I, too, had been a victim, or that I was the one to exact the final, fatal price from Robert. The cost of his actions—and of mine—had been too great. Too horrifying. (Like a Lifetime movie, only without Tori Spelling or the happy ending.) Then my mother added the whipped topping and cherries to my failure cake by taking me to task on the
Leo Talbot Talk Show
. (You’re welcome for the ratings, Leo.)
After that debacle, Mother rescinded her invitation to the traditional family Christmas gathering, and had not invited me to anything else, not even her local book signings. She no longer bothered with the monthly perfunctory phone calls, either, the ones her executive assistant scheduled, so Margaret Morningstone could check “speak to youngest daughter, make her feel inadequate” off her list.
My disgrace had tainted her, and she hadn’t forgiven me.
I really should’ve picked up the hints she’d pretty much disowned me after telling the whole world I was incompetent.
What you’ve done is a great disservice to our profession. You’ve shamed the family, Kelsey, and yourself.
Somewhere inside me was the rejected little girl who wanted Mother’s unconditional love. She’d spent my entire life pointing out numerous times that no emotion was unconditional, least of all love, and I hadn’t believed her.
Until now.
After Mother’s very public rebuff, my brother and sister followed suit. We’d never been particularly close anyway. I’d been a surprise child, one born eighteen years after my sister. Our father died when I was only two. My mother’s psychotherapy practice was already well established as was her career as a lecturer and author. Not long after my father died, Mother hit the
New York Times
bestseller list with her book,
Lies Your Mother Told You: How to Discard Your Childhood Drama and Build a Real Life
.
Her entire career went platinum gold.
Anyway.
When Mr. Dante showed up and offered to make all my debts go away, including the pending payouts to the families, and give me a cushy job that included luxurious digs and a generous paycheck, I didn’t turn it down. Granted, I didn’t accept right away. I knew the folly of allowing someone else to sweep in and solve my problems. I even gave myself a stern lecture, which included phrases like “stand on your own two feet,” “if it doesn’t kill you, it makes you strong,” and “face the music.”
But … well, I guess I wanted the chance to redeem myself. And yeah, okay, I wanted to be free of those burdens heaped upon me by my family, the victims, the courts, and my own conscience. I could never, ever take back what happened. So I could either slit my wrists or I could take the opportunity Mr. Dante offered and try to move on.
I chose Option 2.
The Dante Clinic was a privately funded psychiatric facility that supported the care and well-being of clients handpicked by the facility’s benefactor. No one knew why Mr. Dante chose the people he did—only that most of the cases were hard-core and the patients had no families. Many of them had been homeless or locked up in state facilities. Dante picked up the considerable tab for high-quality care. I had yet to understand his motivations, but maybe it was nothing more than an eccentric indulgence of the super-rich.
Okay. I didn’t buy that, either.
Located just outside Broken Arrow, the facility had been created from one of Dante’s refurbished mansions. It was a huge towering Gothic structure plopped into the middle of a heavily wooded ten acres. It looked like Dracula’s castle and operated like a king’s palace. There were never more than ten residents. With Damian added to the roster, we now had six full-time patients.
Every client had a personal maid and butler, who also served as certified nursing assistants, and when necessary, guards. They were all black belts in various martial arts forms, and they behaved in military fashion. Working in a psychiatric facility wasn’t exactly safe, so I could understand why the security was intense. The suites were large and sumptuous, but impregnable. Everything could be locked down within a matter of seconds. If patients got out of line even the tiniest bit, privileges were revoked, and in the three weeks I’d been here, no client wanted to be without their Egyptian cotton sheets or nightly hot cocoa and scones. Meals were taken together in a dining room roughly the size of a football field. I supposed the more … er, unusual aspects of the clinic were easily balanced out by the quality of care. The facility offered the best of everything to its patients. Maybe the reason I felt unsettled was that I didn’t feel like I was the best option—either as administrator or as psychotherapist. Yet I’d been given a prime opportunity, deserved or not. I would do my best to earn what I had been given.
“You look like you need a Starbucks,” said Mari. “A triple shot.”
Sheesh. I’d been meandering down memory lane, staring sightlessly at the clipboard in my hands. Crap. “Maybe a triple shot of vodka.”
She grinned wickedly. “’ Atta girl.”
I signed off on the entrance paperwork for Damian NoLastName and handed her the clipboard. “I’ll be in my office until my two o’clock with Mr. Danvers.”
“Good luck,” she said sympathetically. “Sven caught him cutting out paper feathers again.”
“Oh, jeez. He’s already sprained his ankle jumping off tables.” I paused. “Do you have the shock bracelets on him?”
She nodded, and I saw the distaste in her gaze. I felt the same about the bracelets, but they were effective. Until the guy stopped believing a demon wanted him to fly or we found a more palatable way to keep him grounded, he would have to wear the bracelets. The clinic employed many experimental psychiatric tools. I was not sold on the bracelets, but Mr. Dante insisted. I couldn’t deny he seemed to genuinely care about the well-being of our clients. Still, he was a man who knew how to exploit the vulnerabilities of others; he was an effective manipulator.
Then again, so was I.
As I said good-bye to Mari and headed toward my first-floor office, I thought about Mr. Danvers. He blamed all his bad behavior on a demon he called Malphas, who supposedly took the form of a crow. He claimed the demon inside him wanted to return to hell, and he wanted to take Mr. Danvers with him—by flying into a portal located in a Tulsa hotel. I can Google as well as anyone, so it easy enough to figure out how my patient had come up with both the name and the ideology behind Malphas. It was on Wikipedia, for heaven’s sake. A hellmouth in a hotel was a good twist, though.
What I was trying to understand was why Mr. Danvers had created the delusion. Right now, I was still building trust between myself and the patients. It would probably take a while for Mr. Danvers to reveal anything that might allow me the insight I needed to help him.
It wasn’t that I didn’t believe in psychic phenomenon. After all, I was an empath. I could feel other people’s emotions. I knew how to tease out the hidden nuances from the main emotion. Someone who was angry almost always had strands of sorrow or hurt or abandonment woven into their fury.
Nothing was ever as it seemed.
My ability usually made it easier to connect with patients, and to help lessen their distress. Unfortunately, Mr. Danvers was a particularly difficult case. Truth and sincerity emanated off him in waves. That was the problem with dealing with delusional patients—they believed absolutely in the realities they created.
Not long after opening my practice, I’d learned by sheer accident that I could also absorb emotions. After I figured out this new facet of my ability, I started using it to just take away the pain, the anger, the confusion, even the crazy. I didn’t realize I’d made myself vulnerable, or that I’d taken away the ability for my patients to work through their issues. They didn’t stop engaging in the destructive behaviors that had led them to my door—they just didn’t feel bad about those actions anymore. I’d given them a magic pill. And I’d taken all their poison into myself.
I was already off emotional kilter when Robert Mallard became my patient. Somehow, he’d been able to creep under my skin, get inside my head, and—
no
. I repeated my mental mantra: Let go. Move on. Find peace.
So much easier said than done.
I thought about the mysterious and very naked Damian. I picked up the phone and hit the speed dial for Sven’s cell. He had an office, but he was never in it. He was a prowler, someone constantly on the move trying to anticipate problems. He was very good at his job, but not much of a talker.
“Dubowski.”
“Hi, Sven,” I chirped. I was well aware that my perkiness annoyed him. What can I say? I had yet to discard all my childish impulses. “It’s Dr. Morningstone. Will you escort our newest patient to his suite?”
He was silent for so long, I said, “Um, Sven?”
“Too dangerous.”
“Even for you?” I asked. “That’s surprising. You’re not afraid of him, are you?”
“Save your psych crap for the nutjobs,” he said sourly.
“Aw, Sven, you say the sweetest things. You were voted Mr. Congeniality in high school, weren’t you? Go on, admit it. Your sunny disposition gave you away, Pollyanna.”
Sven made a snorting noise that almost sounded like a laugh, but I couldn’t be sure. I’d never seen the man smile, much less chuckle. “Fine,” he groused. “I’ll get your werewolf settled in.”
A second later, I heard the dial tone.
“You’re a peach,” I muttered. Then I hung up the receiver. Huh. Why had he called Damian a werewolf?
“Dr. Morningstone.”
Startled by the deep male voice, I gasped and shoved back from the desk. When I saw the imposing figure of Mr. Dante standing in the doorway, I took a shuddering breath. I remembered quite clearly shutting my door; I hadn’t even noticed that he’d opened it. How long had he been standing there observing me?
He was a big man—a linebacker in Armani. He had wavy black hair, stormy gray eyes, and chiseled features. I never got vibes off him. He was either completely emotionless, which was impossible, or exercised iron control over his emotional state. I believed he was very capable of encapsulating pesky feelings.
His lips flickered at the corners, and I swore he’d tried to smile.
Realizing that I’d been sitting on the edge of my chair gaping up at him, I rose to my feet. “Mr. Dante. Please, come in.”
He was already inside, but he didn’t call me on the obvious flub. Instead, he strode to one of the wingbacks that faced my desk and sat down. I retook my seat and scooted closer to my desk. Mr. Danvers and Damian’s files were beneath my fingertips.
“Are you settling in well, Kelsey?”
I nodded. The informality suggested an intimacy in our relationship that made me uneasy. Was he attempting to create a more congenial relationship? Or trying to throw me off-guard so he could whammy me?
Overanalyze much, Kel?
Truthfully, I looked for motives in even the most mundane gestures long before I got my psychotherapy license. My mother taught me well the hubris of the well-intentioned.
“We seem to be transitioning from our perceived roles,” I said pleasantly. “Shall I call you Jarred?”
“I would like that very much.”
His tone was warm, friendly. I wasn’t sure what to make of his change in demeanor. Oh, don’t get me wrong. He’d always been polite. He’d never said or done anything indecorous. But it seemed that he was, indeed, trying to create a new level of intimacy between us.
“What are your thoughts on our new patient?” he asked.
“I might be able to offer a better assessment if I knew more about his circumstances. All I know is that you somehow rescued him from a private lab and he has amnesia. Who would experiment on him? And why?”
“I’m aware that it’ll be more difficult to treat him without knowing his full story.” His gaze flicked over me. “I’m disinclined to share certain details with you at this time, but I can tell you that he suffers from lycanthropy.”
I took a moment to absorb what he was saying. Either he didn’t trust me enough to offer complete disclosure, or the situation involved issues (legalities, perhaps) that he didn’t want to confirm. After all, no one had discussed the logistics of removing Damian from his previous incarceration. I had no doubts he’d been a prisoner—his body and his manner bore the marks of a caged and tormented creature.