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

First published in Great Britain in 2012 by

Quercus
55 Baker Street
7th Floor, South Block
London
W1U 8EW

Copyright © 2012 by Lynda Hilburn

The moral right of Lynda Hilburn to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

eBook ISBN 978 1 84866 264 3

Published in print in the USA by Silver Oak/Stirling
ISBN 978 1 45490 036 8

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

You can find this and many other great books at:
www.quercusbooks.co.uk

Lynda Hilburn’s varied career has taken her from rock-’n’roll, as a singer/musician, to psychology, as a certified psychotherapist. She has also worked as a typesetter/copy-editor, a professional psychic/tarot reader, a university instructor and a workshop presenter, before she turned her talents to writing fiction. She lives in Boulder, Colorado. You can visit her at:
www.lyndahilburnauthor.com

Also by Lynda Hilburn

The Vampire Shrink

To my son, Daniel, who makes life interesting

But she’s fat, Doctor Knight!” The lithe vampire was wringing his hands compulsively in his lap as he whined, “You know fat women remind me of my mother—”

“Yes, Nicky. I know.” I took a deep breath and struggled to keep my expression neutral. He’d repeated this story several times in earlier therapy sessions. “It’s very unfair that you were turned by a … large female vampire and that she insists you share her coffin—and other things.”

Even vampires think it’s okay to denigrate people of size—well, why not? They used to be human.

He leaped off the couch and paced the lush blue carpet in the space between us. “Just so you know, it ain’t that I’ve got anything against my mother. She was a nice lady. She did the best she could. I guess it wasn’t her fault she had a disease or condition that made her blimp up to three hundred pounds.” He strode to the window and stood staring out silently for a few seconds, his hands clasped behind his back. “She didn’t mean for all the kids in the neighborhood to make fun of me for having a hippo mom. I’m not blaming her. I tried not to be disgusted by her.” His voice softened. “I was sorry when she died.”

Setting my notepad and pen on the table next to my chair, I rose and joined him at the window. Sometimes just being with a client is the best I can do. We stood together, watching the lights of Denver glitter from our lofty vantage point.

Maybe I should change my title to Dr. Kismet Knight, Vampire Whisperer.

I studied his frowning reflection in the glass. He was an attractive young man, closer to pretty than handsome—the word “winsome” came to mind. His dancer’s body and long, silky light-brown hair gave him a decidedly androgynous appearance. He looked to be in his early twenties, but I knew he’d been a vampire for fifty years.

Good thing new vampires couldn’t read minds for decades—sometimes centuries—or I’d go crazy trying to censor myself around clients like Nicky.

“Last week you said you were going to tell Wanda why you have strong negative reactions when she tries to have sex with you or wants to keep you in her coffin all night. Did you talk to her?”

He gasped, and his gaze shot to mine, his deep-green eyes wide. He looked as horrified as if I’d come at him with a sharp stake. “N– No, no! I could never talk to her about those things—I could never disobey my moth— I mean, Wanda.” Glazed eyes now transfixed on the window again, he hugged himself tightly for a moment, then raised a slender wrist to his mouth and began gnawing furiously.

“Nicky!” I jumped aside as blood spurted from the holes he’d made in his arm, splashing onto the window, fouling my black pantsuit, and oozing into the carpet. “What are you doing? Please stop!” What the hell? He’d never done anything like that before.

He stopped chewing on himself long enough to speak. He turned to me, blood dripping from his fangs, and said, “It makes me feel better, Doctor Knight. I saw this TV show about a girl who cuts herself with razor blades. She said it relieved her anxiety. I tried cutting, but the wounds healed too fast—but this works for me. I’ve been doing it for a while. It really takes my mind off whatever I’m worried about. You said I should learn different ways to cope, didn’t you?”

Holy crap. Be careful what you ask for. …

“Hurting yourself wasn’t what I had in mind, Nicky. Please stop.” My heart was still racing, and my breath came in shallow bursts. I was sure I looked shocked as I surveyed the red stains on the wall and carpet and examined my soiled slacks. I was definitely going to have to start wearing blood-repelling leather clothing.

He reluctantly lowered his arm, which had already stopped bleeding. The holes disappeared as I watched. Still sniffling, he covered his face with his hands, then mumbled, “I’m sorry, Doctor Knight. I didn’t mean to be bad. If you tell Wanda, she’ll punish me.”

Does he think that’s a good thing or bad? Knowing Nicky, it could go either way.

“We don’t have to tell Wanda anything about what happens in our sessions, Nicky.” I recognized the familiar pattern: progress gained in one hour usually evaporated in the next. Every time I met with Nicky I felt like we’d stumbled into an old
X-Files
episode: we were stuck in an endlessly repeating time loop—although he didn’t appear to notice. Apparently he’d been cycling through this approach-avoidance pattern with his maker for the last five decades. I didn’t know enough about the bond between a vampire and his creator to make even an educated guess about what would help him—hell, I’d been officially counseling vampires for only a few weeks—it was less than three months since I’d blundered into the bloodsucker underworld. I was lucky I hadn’t become an unwilling evening snack or coffin-toy yet.

His eyes now glued to my face, his fangs fully extended, he slowly raised his arm toward his mouth again. He thrust his tongue out in quick darting movements, licking the dried blood from his arm, all the while shifting his weight from foot to foot. He inched his arm closer to his teeth.

Gee, what a surprise. He wants to see what I’ll do, how far he can push me.

“Nicky?” I layered my
I’m an authority
tone into my voice. “Don’t even think about it.” Crossing my arms over my chest, I examined the spatter. “Who’s going to clean up the blood on the glass and the carpet? It seems only fair that you should take care of it.”

He dropped his arm, his chin trembling. “What?” A tear spilled down his cheek. “You want me to
clean
?
I
don’t know how to get blood out of stuff—Wanda always does that. See how messed up I am? I can’t do anything! You have to help me, Doctor Knight!”

Same song, same verse …
“I’m here to teach you to help yourself, Nicky. If you keep coming to therapy, keep practicing your skills, I promise things can get better.”

A muscle jumped in his cheek, and he frowned. Then he turned back to the window and stared out, clearly unconvinced.

Nicky was young for a vampire, at least compared to some of the other multi-century specimens I’d had on my couch, and he was struggling through an extended undead adolescence. I’d discovered the greater the time since the turning, the more autonomy the undead acquired. Nicky would probably figure things out eventually. Maybe. I intended to speak to Devereux, the Master of the local vampire coven and my—what? Boyfriend? Significant other? Friend with benefits? None of those descriptions quite fit—about my conflicted client.

For safety—mine—and confidentiality, I insisted that all my supernatural clients sign a Release of Information form giving me permission to consult with their leader. I didn’t want any pointy surprises. But Devereux had been so busy, and so out of sorts, as he recovered from being captured and subjected to a black-magic ritual orchestrated by a demented offspring—the bloodsucker formerly known as Bryce—that I hadn’t had time to broach the subject.

“It’ll be okay, Nicky,” I said softly. “You’ll work things out with Wanda. You always do.” I raised my hand to pat him on the shoulder, then thought better of it. Vampires couldn’t be counted on to have human-like reactions, and I was still learning to alter my behavior with my nocturnal clients. Nicky was too immature to be completely trustworthy.

Maybe I need to bring Wanda in for some couples’ therapy. Note to self: buy rubber sheets for the furniture.

“
How
will it be okay?” He turned sad eyes to me. “She’s my maker, so I’m tied to her forever. She’ll never let me go.”

“I don’t know”—I glanced at the clock—“but I’m going to ask someone who might have some advice for you.”
Where’s a bloodsucking clinical supervisor when I need one?

“Someone?” He tilted his head, confused. “You mean a human?”

“No, not a human, a vampire. Someone powerful.” I stepped back from the window and walked toward the door to the waiting room. “That’s all the time we have for tonight, Nicky. I can’t promise anything, but I’ll tell you what I discover when I see you next week.”

He skipped across the room, swinging his arms, a wide smile on his face. “Do you mean you’ll ask the Master?”

Everyone in the local vampire community knew I had a unique relationship with Devereux—in fact, my undead main squeeze had been graphically clear about what he’d do to any vampire who laid a fang on me. So far, his threats had kept me off the menu.

“Wait.” Nicky stopped, the corners of his lips turning down. “Is the Master even the Master anymore?”

“What do you mean?”
Why would he ask such a thing?

I turned the handle and opened the door.

Ensconced on the white couch in my waiting room sat the blond god in question, decked out in his usual body-skimming high-fashion black leathers. His thick platinum hair flowed down his well-toned chest in the most touchable, inviting manner. Blue-green gemstone eyes sparkled.

A fallen angel.

He gave a devastating grin, and Nicky gasped and fell to his knees, question forgotten. “Master!”

As always when Devereux was near, my body developed a mind of its own. My heart pounded, my mouth declared a drought, and my knees weakened. I blinked to clear the sudden fog and clutched the doorknob for support. I didn’t know what it was about him—perhaps it was his mystical vampire vibe, or maybe his personal charisma and raw sex appeal—but once again my brain cells refused to report for duty and my libido dimmed the lights.