Blood Therapy (Kismet Knight, Ph.D., Vampire Psychologist) (16 page)

Holy shit. Here we go again.

Acting out like this was their way of not dealing with the real issue: sublimation at its most bizarre.

Chain wrestled Lucille down and sank his fangs into one of her breasts. I didn’t know whether to chastise him because he’d assaulted her or congratulate him for getting past the fear of using his fangs.

But because I’d been there and done this, I knew what to do. I climbed up on my desk, pulled from my pocket the whistle I’d tucked away earlier, and blew it as loud as I could.

“Stop!”

They all froze.

I pointed to the circle of chairs. “Go back to your seats. Now!”

With sheepish expressions they all complied.

I hopped down from the desk, grabbed a jacket someone had left hanging on my coat rack, and tossed it to Lucille. She draped it around her shoulders instead of covering herself.

Quick as a snake, Chain pinched one of Lucille’s nipples.

Lucille giggled.

“Chain! We never touch someone without their permission. And we don’t bite without an invitation. Apologize to Lucille, and keep your hands to yourself.”

“Apologize? For what? She’s naked, Doctor Knight. What’s a guy supposed to do? And she lets me do a lot more than that outside of
group.”

“That doesn’t matter,” I said.
And thanks for that disturbing visual.
“You know the rules: no physical contact with any of the other members or with me. So go on—apologize. And congratulations on using your fangs, by the way.”

Everyone clapped.

Chain looked at Lucille, stuck his tongue out, then said in a sarcastic voice, “I’m sorry.”

Undead preschool.

Dennis and Walter were sitting rigidly, trying not to look in Lucille’s direction.

“Okay. Anyone still worried about whether or not Devereux can protect his coven?”

“No,” they chorused.

“Anyone still afraid Lucifer will get you?”

That elicited a less enthusiastic, “No.”

None of them sounded convinced, but at least I’d given them something to think about.

“All right, that’s it for tonight. Good job, everyone. Practice thinking positively about your fangs and take a courageous risk—bite someone who wants you to. See you next week, same time, same place.”

They all popped out amid a flurry of good-byes, leaving me in glorious silence.

Bite someone who wants you to? I’m becoming as bizarre as they are.

After group I sat at my desk, writing notes. I’d just completed the last paragraph when my cell phone rang. I tensed. Lucifer’s Brother Luther personality usually left messages on my business voice mail number, but I couldn’t take anything for granted. There was nothing to keep him from calling my cell.

I checked the caller ID and let out the breath I’d been holding. I couldn’t deny the little rush of pleasure I experienced when I read the name. Alan. But then I wondered,
Why am I pleased? Because I’m attracted to him? Or because he’s human and can’t mess with my head in any non-normal way?

“Alan? Is everything okay? We just spoke yesterday—you’re usually way too busy to spend much time on the phone.”

“No. Everything’s not okay,” he said, his voice strained. “Hold onto your hat.”

His tone tightened my stomach as much as his words. “Why? What’s wrong?”

“I just found out the three bodies the cops have here are Lucifer’s work. Add them to the six I already knew about, and he’s killed nine so far.”

“Oh, Alan! That’s terrible. We’ve got to find—”

“Wait. There’s more.”

“More?” A wave of nausea washed through me.

“Four of the drained bodies we already knew about plus the three new victims had something in common: something the cops just put together.”

My body trembled. Whatever he was about to say was bad. I could feel the negative tendrils of energy crawling along the phone lines. “What did they have in common?” I remembered the quick vision flashes of people I’d seen during the TV report.

“They’re all psychologists.”

“Holy bat-shit, Robin,” I blurted, reverting to my favorite junior high expression. “Lucifer’s murdering therapists?”

“Uh-huh. Dark-haired female psychologists.”

My mouth went dry. “He’s symbolically killing me over and over? But why, Alan? Why would he do that? Why is he so fixated on me?” Even as I asked the questions I knew there wouldn’t be any logical answers.

“Your guess is as good as mine. I had to tell you so you can protect yourself accordingly. We both know he’ll eventually lose interest in offing people who represent you, and then he’ll go right for the source. His madness has escalated. The cops haven’t released the link between the victims to the media yet, but they will—and soon.”

“Oh. My. God. What am I supposed to do about this, Alan? And I’m going to a conference full of psychologists.” I knew I was in denial, but I had to ask anyway, “Do you think that might draw him?”

“I’d say there’s a good chance he’ll show up, but as we discussed before, there’s no way of knowing for sure where he is or where he’ll go. Maybe he’s back in Denver right now.”

“Damn.” My stomach clenched. “I hope he’s not here. But for all I know, he could be right outside my window.” That idea startled me so much that I walked over to convince myself he wasn’t lurking on my windowsill. Devereux had so many magical protections on the office building—and on my home—that it was harder for Lucifer to simply show up in those places. But there was nothing to prevent him from attacking me in my car—or anywhere else, for that matter. Great.

“Should we warn the conference organizers?” I wondered aloud. “Let them know there’s possible danger?”

“Sounds good in theory, but what the hell would we say? How would we explain having access to such information?”

“I could tell them I heard it from you, Mr. FBI—that you told me there’s a crazed serial killer tracking psychologists.”

“Yeah, and then I’d have to deny saying any such thing, you’d look like a fool, and the FBI would fire my ass.”

“Well, shit.”

“But maybe we can think of something we can do.”

“We?” I suddenly realized that “you” had become “we” a while ago.

“Yeah. I’ve decided to go to the conference with you. Officially. There’s no way I’m letting you go alone now. If he’s targeting therapists, and he’s fixated on you, this psychologist smorgasbord is probably too juicy for him to pass up. We might have a real chance of catching him there.”

Catching him? We? How would
we
do that? I’m back to wanting to crawl under the covers.

But even though hearing Alan say he’d come was an unexpected relief, part of me was still wondering whether I should reconsider going. Would the trip be a suicidal gesture on my part? But how cowardly would I feel if I didn’t go? And how long could I hide from the demon even if I stayed home?

“You’re right. We’ve got to do whatever we can. Thanks for agreeing to go with me—you’re the best.”

“I’m glad you’re finally realizing that,” he teased, trying to lighten the mood. “And besides, New York’s my old stomping ground, and I haven’t been back for a while. I think I told you it’s the last place I saw my mother. It wouldn’t hurt to check in with some of the accessible local vampires again—see if there have been any sightings of her.”

“Yeah. I hope you’ll tell me more about your mother some time. But listening to you reminds me that your life is as vampire-saturated as mine. I don’t know how good that is for either of us.”

“Probably not very good, but there’s another benefit to me attending the conference. After we spoke yesterday, I thought it might be nice for both of us to have a little time alone together, see what’s what.”

“Alan, you know I care about you, but I’m all screwed up right now—”

“Screwed up” doesn’t even
begin
to cover it. …

“I know,” he interrupted. “No commitments. No promises. Just two friends who are attracted to each other getting together for companionship and conversation, and joining forces for the apocalypse.” He fell silent for a few seconds. “I think we both could use a friend, Kismet. Things have been crazy for me, too. I’m under a lot of pressure at the Bureau—they want me to catch what they believe is a serial killer pretending to be a vampire or turn the case over to another agent. I don’t know what I’ll tell them if and when we do catch Lucifer. They’ll never believe the truth. Likely I won’t even have any proof he existed. When he dies, or stops being undead or whatever, he’ll just rot down to bones and ashes. Am I supposed to vacuum him up and take the remains back to the FBI?”

“Crap. I never thought about that. I guess you are in a no-win situation. We can brainstorm about it if you like—can’t hurt to try to generate some out-of-the-coffin ideas. But what will you do during the daytime at the conference while I’m presenting and attending workshops? There’s not much vampire hunting to be done while the sun’s out.”

“I can check in with the local cops, and there might be some lectures of interest to me. I’ll just sneak in—or use my FBI credentials, and let them think I’m undercover on a case.” He laughed. “That always works. I never have to pay for anything. Aside from that, we can catch up over some good meals. I’ll even reserve my own room in case I need it, but it might be better—protection-wise—for me to stay close.”

I imagined him waggling his eyebrows when he said that.

“Uh-huh. I’m sure you think that. Wait—what about Detective Andrews, the gorgeous ass-kicking upholder of justice? Won’t she miss you if you’re gone?”

“You’re jealous! I love it—you just made my day.”

“I’m not jealous.”
Am I?

“Yeah, right. You just happened to remember the way I described her, word for word. I thought
I
was the one with the tape-recorder memory. Now I
know
we’ve got to get together. I’m not giving up without a fight. So you’re okay with me sticking close to you at the conference?”

Well, why not? Alan was the only other human who knew everything about the vampires. It would be a relief to spend time with someone around whom I didn’t have to censor my words. And maybe we did need to explore our mutual interest. I’d been so
besotted—
unnaturally so—with Devereux that I’d never given myself the opportunity to stick a toe in Alan’s pool.

“It’s fine with me as long as you’re okay that my priority will be networking with colleagues and hearing the latest research. I’m hoping that’ll take my mind off the bloodsucking insanity—if only for a little while. I wouldn’t want you to think I’m ignoring you.”

“I’m a big boy, Kismet. You just enjoy the conference and trust me to take care of myself. I’ll be there for you.”

Hmmm. I’ve heard that before. …

“So, it’s a date?” he said.

“Yes. I’ll see you in New York on Wednesday. Bye.”

Just as I disconnected, Devereux popped into the office.

“You will see who, where?”

Devereux!” I practically fell off my chair. “You startled me—I wasn’t expecting you.”

He moved toward my desk like a predator stalking prey, his eyes narrowed. “Apparently.”

Fear shot down my spine. What the hell? He was definitely in a mood. I sat straighter in my chair, my fight-or-flight reflex engaged. “What’s wrong? Why are you acting so … threateningly? Has something happened?”

“To whom were you speaking just now?” He circled around behind my desk, put his hands on my shoulders, and began to knead the tight muscles.

I would’ve let myself enjoy the impromptu massage if it wasn’t for the flashing red alert my intuition was sending out. Under the circumstances, relaxation was impossible. Something was very wrong. “I was talking to Alan Stevens. You remember him—the FBI agent Bryce captured at the Vampires’ Ball. The one who’s searching for Lucifer.”

“Ah, yes.” His voice was cold enough to cause frostbite. “The profiler with whom you had a sexual interlude. I do indeed remember.”

Why was he getting pissed about that now? “What’s going on, Devereux? Why are you so angry?” I automatically started practicing the hum.

He let go of my shoulders, walked around to the front of the desk, and sat on the arm of the couch, facing me. “I will come back to Alan Stevens in a moment.” He raised a brow. “I cannot read your thoughts, but I do not need to mind-read to sense that you are deceiving me, pretending you do not know why you are closed to me. Why would you do that? Have you decided to disrespect me along with everyone else? Do I suddenly mean nothing to you?” Hurt simmered under his anger.

Disrespect him along with everyone else?

This was getting scary. I’d never felt Devereux so emotional, so … unhinged. Unfiltered fear scorched my skin, and I began to shake. He couldn’t be this upset because I was talking to Alan. That simply wasn’t like him—but then he hadn’t been himself since he came out of the coma. Anne was right: Devereux was teetering on the edge. His inability to catch Lucifer had put his entire self-identity on the line.

“Devereux, please—what are you talking about? Of course you mean something to me. Talk to me.”