Crimson Psyche (14 page)

Yeah, in your dreams.

“Anyway, we got naked and she started talking about being a vampire. I figured she was nuts, but I humored her. It wasn’t like I was going to let something as lame as her vampire delusion interfere with my orgasm.” He waggled his eyebrows. “I guess I can be a little self-absorbed sometimes.”

“You think?” I laughed so long he raised his voice to regain my attention.

“
Ahem.
So she said she was going to show me she was a vampire, and she let her fangs descend, and all this time she’d been staring into my eyes, making me feel like I’d had a few tokes of good Mexican, and just as I was about to have the best climax I’d ever had—” He stopped and patted my hand. “No offense meant, of course. Our sex life was great, too.”

I snorted again — he was so pitifully self-obsessed — but managed, “No offense taken. Go on with your story. I’m all ears.” I was so tired I couldn’t even work up any annoyance at his density.

He frowned, and I could almost see the wheels in his brain turning as he tried to figure out what was so funny. “So, best climax, et cetera, and then she
bites
me — she actually chomps down on my neck with her sharp teeth. For a couple of seconds it hurt like hell, but then — well, I’m sure you know, since you and Devereux—”

Multiple orgasmic body rushes, soul-melding transcendence, toe-curling ambrosia...
“Yes, I know. Then what?”

“Well, after she convinced me she was really a vampire, we sat and talked until dawn. She told me how she’d been turned, and how lonely she’d been until she joined Devereux’s coven. Evidently he’s held in high regard by the vampire community. She says he’s strict but fair, something that isn’t common in their world. The vampire who sired her — that’s the guy who fanged her — is a wuss, so she isn’t as powerful as she would have been if someone like Devereux had brought her over. Apparently if she drinks Devereux’s blood, she gets stronger. I guess that’s one of the things he does for his coven members.”

I sat up a little straighter in my chair. I’d never heard that. Devereux was very close-mouthed about his coven. He shared his blood with them? I guessed that made sense. But something about it made me uncomfortable, although I wasn’t quite sure what bothered me — was it the intimacy of it, or the fact that he hadn’t told me?

Too much to think about.
I pushed those questions out of my brain and shifted my attention back to Tom. “So I still don’t understand how hanging out with Zoë has made you want to die. That’s what really happens, you know. It isn’t glamorous or romantic. You’ll be dead. A
corpse.
A blood-drinker—”

“Yeah, I get it.” He paused and studied me. “Is that really how you think of Devereux? As a corpse? Or are you just giving me your therapist spiel?”

I had to ponder that for a few seconds. Devereux was unique in ways that had nothing to do with vampirism — all that magical mysticism and Druid ancestry, I guess. And I was hardly one to be pointing a self-righteous finger at anyone about drinking blood. “No, I guess I don’t think of him that way, but it’s still the reality for most, and if I didn’t mention that particular set of truths to my clients, I’d be lying. From what little I know about the process, it isn’t as if a new vampire simply springs forth complete with powers and ancient knowledge. All that stuff comes with time — sometimes decades, sometimes centuries. And unless a powerful vampire does the turning, a newbie could spend eternity as someone’s flunky. Does that sound appealing to you?”

He gave me his best nefarious grin. “Not in the least. That’s why I’m here to sign up with the most powerful vampire there is. If Devereux brings me over, I’ll be in the top percentage of vampires.”

Holy shit.

“The
top percentage
of vampires?” I hooted with laughter. “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard you say, and you’ve given me lots to compare it to. If you think being a vampire is just another lifestyle choice, you’re a bigger ass than I thought. Is this some kind of competition to you? Some kind of undead award you’re after? Do you honestly think it’s like being a member of some exclusive club? What on earth has Zoë been telling you, and why would you ever think Devereux would participate in such a thing?”

His face fell, as if he’d momentarily abandoned his performance. “I’m getting old, Kismet,” he said quietly.

“What?” I knew he had always been fixated on staying young, but he was only eight years older than me, and that wasn’t old by any rational standard.

“I’m not even forty yet and I have wrinkles,” he said, sounding almost heartbroken. “My surgeon said I’ve already had too many procedures for someone my age. He said my skin is
sun-damaged
.” Tom was beginning to sound seriously aggrieved now, as if the world had lied to him. “He refuses to operate on me anymore, and he says if I go to another doctor, I’ll end up like one of those scary reality TV plastic-surgery-gone-wrong freaks who don’t even look human. My career is just starting to come together and I live in La-La land where we worship youth and beauty. Zoë says if I come over now, I’ll stay as I am forever — I’ll maybe even gain a little youth in the process. I could at least be a star for a few years before they notice I’m not aging.”

I realized my mouth had been hanging open, so I closed it. “Wait a minute. What about the current crop of television psychologists? They’re not spring chickens and haven’t built their empires on their physical attributes. Why are you so paranoid? Have you considered that it might be a good thing to appear old and wise?”

He sprang out of the chair and paced around the kitchen, no longer making eye-contact. “Old and wise won’t work for the project I just pitched to cable. It’s an edgy reality TV show for an adult audience. I’d be counseling people, but not in a talk-show format.”

I watched him march back and forth across the room. “Well, if not a talk show, what would it be?”

He mumbled something under his breath.

“What did you say? I didn’t hear you.”

He paused in front of me, crossed his arms protectively over his chest, and cleared his throat. “Everything’s tentative right now — my people are talking to their people — but I’m going to be Dr. Sex. I’d... um, actively — well, counsel people who have sexual problems. Sort of — well, a glorified sexual surrogate. We’d have a tasteful yet erotic bedroom set, and all the sessions would take place there.” He eased into the chair again. “It’s going to be on one of the premium channels, and there’ll be lots of full-body shots. So you can see why I need to stay young and handsome.”

I had a sudden vision of Tom at his most pompous, instructing people on how to most efficiently shove part A into part B, and then demonstrating the correct way to accomplish the task. It sounded X-rated to me.

“So what’s the difference between that and a porn movie?”

He thrust his chin into the air. “Sex therapists are
professionals
, Kismet. Obviously I’ll need to get my license for that specialty. I can assure you there’s no license needed for
porn
!”

Oops. Apparently I’d hit a nerve. He must have had some mixed emotions about the porn notion too. We both knew that making one false move, professionally speaking, could lose him his psychology license.

“You came up with the idea for this program all by yourself?”

He reclaimed his chair and fanned his fingers out on the table, pretending to examine his manicured nails. “The idea was tossed around at a party I attended. You probably remember that I have a keen interest in all aspects of sex, right?” I nodded at the understatement of the year. “Well, some friends and I were experimenting, and a couple of them teasingly asked if I knew the best position to achieve a certain goal, and I just happened to have that knowledge, so I showed them. In fact, I ended up demonstrating a number of techniques to several people. At the end of the evening someone said I was so good at it, I should go into business as a sex therapist. Not only that, but someone else had videotaped the evening and when I watched the tape — well, I had to agree that the camera loved me. I do have a knack for sex therapy.”

Trying not to laugh by holding my lower lip between my teeth had started to hurt, and my jaw made a cracking sound when I opened my mouth. I struggled to keep a serious expression on my face. “I’m not clear on the actual
therapy
part of this plan,” I started. “What else happens besides a lot of orgasms? Can you even do that stuff on television?”

“Yes,” he said enthusiastically, “on special channels for adults. I forgot to mention that during the sessions, while I’m describing the sex techniques, I’m also talking to them about the psychological reasons for their problems, and about ways to enhance emotional intimacy. So whenever I demonstrate something myself, I’ll be sharing personal issues I’ve conquered myself in order to become the man I am today. We had a mock session, and at the end one of the audience members was crying — it was
tremendously
moving. So you must see why I’m excited about this idea? I’d get to do two things I love, sex and therapy, as well as make money and be on television. It just doesn’t get any better than that.”

He stared at me expectantly.

I didn’t want to say “I see” again, so I just stared back at him. I noticed his unnaturally ashen appearance once more. “Why are you so pale? Are you sick? Is that really why you think you want to become one of the children of the night? Is this whole Dr. Sex story just a cover?”

He gave me a sheepish smile. “No, I’m not sick. I really do want to be Dr. Sex on television. I’m so white because Zoë’s been trying to turn me and she just doesn’t have the juice.” He lowered his gaze. “She’s getting a little worried, because no matter how much blood we swap, the only thing that happens is that I get weaker. She’s afraid she’s just killing me, even though we’re trying to follow the transformation ritual but the thing is, she’s not totally clear on how to perform it. In fact...” He stared down at his hands again. “We’ve kind of just been making it up as we go along.”

“There’s a
transformation
ritual?”

“Yeah. Zoë asked a bloodsucker she met in California for information and apparently there are a couple of routes to becoming a vampire. The most painless one has lots of steps, and it involves both the sucker and the suckee holding a
pure desire,
whatever that is.”

“Pure desire? Devereux told me that the turning process was more complicated than anything that’s portrayed in movies and books, but he has never elaborated.” Devereux’s dead mother had mentioned something about it being difficult to become a vampire. She’d said
intention
was needed. If I ever ran into — or
through
— her again, I’d be sure to ask what she meant, along with a couple of hundred other questions.

Then I focused on something Tom had just said and grimaced. “Go back to the bit about swapping blood. You’re
drinking Zoë’s blood
?” Geez! All the chemicals in his peels, facials and hair dye jobs must have seeped through his skin and started rotting his brain. He was crazier than most of my clients. I had no idea he’d gotten so desperate.

He narrowed his eyes and pressed his lips together tightly for a few seconds. “You hypocrite! You’re boinking a corpse — you let him drink your blood. Are you honestly expecting me to believe that you’ve never sampled his? That you’ve never been on the receiving end?”

Since my judgmental opinion was probably written all over my face, I couldn’t blame him for having such a reaction.

“We’re not talking about me. I’m not the one going on a liquid diet.” I had a quick memory flash of drinking a cup of elders’ blood.
Bullshit much, Kismet?

We locked eyes for a few seconds, both scowling, then his brown eyes softened and he reached across the table and took my hands in his. “Will you help me, Kismet? Will you talk to Devereux? Put in a good word for me? Please?”

Wow. Tom had to be desperate if he was willing to admit he needed anyone’s help for anything. But I couldn’t begin to imagine how the conversation I’d have to have with Devereux would go after,
Devereux, my love. Would you please drain all the blood from my ex-boyfriend Tom so he can die and rise as a vampire to become the world-renowned Dr. Sex on cable TV?
Yeah, that would be fun. Time for some artful avoidance.

I stood and patted Tom’s cheek. “Let me sleep on it.”

He smiled. “I could help you sleep on it.”

Laughing, I walked out of the kitchen, trudged up the stairs and into the bathroom. I locked the door, stripped off my bloody clothes and took the world’s quickest shower. Still wet, I bolted into my bedroom, secured that door, peeled down the covers — which were thankfully still clean — and jumped into bed.

I slept like the dead.

“I see you threw quite a party. I’m sure the Master will be amused.”

My eyes flew open. Luna, Devereux’s personal assistant and undead pit bull, was standing next to my bed. It wasn’t full dark, but since she was vertical, it was safe to assume the sun had gone behind the mountains. I’d slept the entire day away.

She was dressed in her familiar black leather: skintight pants and a cleavage-enhancing bustier. Her eye makeup was sedate compared to her usual Cleopatra-inspired artistry, with only one color of eye shadow tonight, rather than the multi-hued extravaganza she regularly painted on. The bold design was still a sharp contrast against her very pale skin. Her long, straight hair fell like a thick, black veil in an unintended salute to Morticia Addams. Her silver eyes reminded me of... the murdering psychopath from the night before at the deserted amusement park. I took a breath and forced myself to banish that thought. It wasn’t safe to send out any unconscious invitations.

“What are you talking about? What party?” I sat up and something fell from my forehead down onto my breasts. I’d been in such a hurry to get into bed that I hadn’t taken the time to put on a nightgown. Or anything else.

Without thinking about my state of undress, I flicked on the bedside lamp, squinted down at the shiny blue thong displayed on my chest and tried to remember why strange underwear would’ve been on my head. Unless I’d blacked out and one of my split personalities had invited someone for a sleepover, I had no answer to the mystery

Luna bent down, lifted the thong with one finger and dangled it in front of my face. An evil smile spread across her lips. “I hope the sex was worth dying for, because the Master is going to destroy him.”

I tugged a blanket over my exposed breasts and stared at the blue fabric. I snatched the object from her finger and gave it a close inspection. There, embroidered across the front in golden thread, were the initials
TR
. Well, at least I knew why Tom hadn’t donned any underwear when he’d gotten dressed in front of me — he obviously still enjoyed whipping off his skimpy thong and throwing it into the air before settling down to business. Some things never changed. While I was glad to have solved the puzzle, I was disgusted that it had somehow ended up on my head. Apparently, they’d spent more time in my room than Tom let on. I guess his fear of death took a while to kick in.

I tossed Tom’s underwear on the floor and met the smirking gaze of the Amazon vampire looming over me. “Tom and Zoë frolicked in my guest room while I was gone last night. They must have undressed in here. Not that I owe you any kind of explanation.”

She snorted. “I’ll be sure to tell the Master. I’m
certain
he’ll be understanding. He’s
so
trusting of your sincerity.”

I wasn’t awake enough to deal with Luna. Actually, I was never awake enough to deal with the hostile she-devil. She’d loathed me even before we’d met, for the sole reason, as far as I could see, that Devereux enjoyed my company. To Luna, humans were useful only as a food source, and she couldn’t imagine any other reason to have one of us around. I’d never figured out if there was any jealousy in the mix — if she wanted Devereux for herself — or if it really was all about her belief that humans were nothing more than liquid delivery systems, and inferior ones at that.

The fact that Devereux’s assistant was a cross between a Playboy bunny and a supermodel didn’t make dealing with her any easier. We’d unwillingly spent time together a few months earlier, when Devereux had ordered her to protect me. She’d fought the insane vampire Lucifer to save my life and wound up on the short end of the fang. Watching Luna struggle to control her bloodlust while her body healed her battle-scars was one of the most terrifying experiences I’d ever had. She regressed to a primitive state, took control of my mind and paralyzed my body. I was at her mercy. If it hadn’t been for the magic talisman Devereux insisted I wear, she’d have drained me dry. I know that, because she told me. And I believed her.

Devereux assured me he and Luna had never been intimate and I trusted him, but every time I saw her outrageous body I wondered, why not?

I frowned. “So why are you here? What do you want?”

She lifted her upper lip in an Elvis-like sneer, showing me her fangs. She was one creepy bloodsucker.

“Never mind, I
know
what you want.” I tugged the blanket up a little higher. “And you know you aren’t going to get it. Devereux won’t let you suck on me. So, again, why are you here?”

“Lucky for you I fed before I arrived, otherwise I might be tempted to drink from you, heal the punctures and erase your memory. You’re fortunate I’m loyal to the Master, but never doubt that I’m counting the minutes until he casts you aside. Then all your protections will end and we will have our rendezvous.”

I glared at her, but she ignored me and added, “He sent me to tell you he’s still involved with the warring covens, so he won’t be available until after midnight. He wants you to join him at the Crypt then. He also commands that you wear the protective necklace he gave you.”

She snarled and vanished.

He
commands?

Devereux had given me the magical silver pentagram — the one that had kept Luna from my throat — when I’d been stalked by Lucifer. It hadn’t kept the monster away completely, but it had succeeded in discouraging several other hungry undead predators from turning me into a buffet. I’d taken it off after the nightmare with Dracul — it was a heavy piece of jewelry — but wearing it again sounded like a great idea.

I flopped back and pulled the covers over my head.

Well, Kismet, what’s it going to be? Should you get up, or just hide under the covers? Hmm, difficult decision. Let’s review the reasons to burrow in: a maniacal killer who has plans for you, a bloodsucking supermodel who yearns to drain you dry, an ex-boyfriend who wants to become the undead Dr. Sex, and an ancient lust object who arranges your life to suit himself.

As much as I wanted to put my stressful world on hold, my body reminded me that no matter how crazy things might be getting, I still had to pee.

I shuffled to the closet, grabbed my fluffy pink robe and as I scurried next door to the bathroom I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror over the sink. “Damn! It’s the Wicked Witch of the West.” I’d gotten my hair wet in the shower before climbing into bed and now my thick, dark curls stuck out in all directions like a fright wig. My skin was whiter than usual, but that was probably due to the shock of witnessing a murder and then being brain-slimed by the killer. It would’ve been unnatural to have no physical reactions to the insanity. I was surprised I was functional at all.

Craving caffeine, I headed down to the kitchen to load up my coffee machine. It felt odd to wake up this late in the day. My whole system was out of whack. I stood staring at the pot while the aromatic elixir brewed, as if my gaze could hurry it along.

I noticed my empty couch. If Tom had spent the day there, he’d left no evidence behind — no clothes on the floor or take-out food containers on the table. But I knew I hadn’t seen the last of him, not just because he had his own personal vampire transport service, but since he intended to use me to ingratiate himself with Devereux.

I’d just grabbed the handle of the coffee pot to pour my first brain-kicking dose of nirvana when there was a loud pounding on my front door. The sound startled me and I almost dropped the pot. “What the hell now?” I muttered, stomping over to the door as the banging continued. I flicked on the porch light, eyeballed the peephole and saw white hair.

Releasing the locks, I pulled the door open. “Maxie!”

She leapt inside, closed and locked the door, pressed her body against it and stared at me. She looked like I felt: her skin was pasty-white and there were dark circles under her bloodshot blue eyes. She had severe bed hair, and a pillow-crease across her cheek.

I touched her arm. “Maxie, what happened to you? Where did those idiots take you? Are you okay?”

“Yeah — no, damned if I know. That’s why I’m here. I hoped you could tell me what the hell happened to me.”

“Come inside. I need coffee. Do you want some?”

“Does a werewolf shit in the woods?”

“I’ll take that as a yes.” We shuffled like zombies into the kitchen and I pulled out a chair at the table. “Sit down. How do you take your coffee? Do you want something to eat? I’ve got bagels.”

“Black for the coffee and no for the food, but don’t let me stop you.”

I filled two mugs, carried them to the table and sat across from her. We each drank in silence for a few seconds, both understanding the importance of the sacred coffee ritual, and neither of us wanting to disturb the other’s ecstatic moment.

Finally she put her mug down, glanced at me and burst out laughing. “Have you seen your hair?”

I smiled, because I had. “Have you seen yours?”

“Yeah.” She nodded. “I didn’t take a shower or brush my hair or anything. I didn’t know what else to do besides come here.” Her eyes went vacant. “I only have sketchy memories of anything after those two satanic asswipes grabbed me from the mezzanine. I’m missing a lot of details — it’s like a portion of the videotape in my brain was erased. I just woke up about an hour ago in my apartment, still dressed in the clothes I wore last night, and I’m still not sure how I got there.” She stared down into her coffee. “Shit, Kismet. How the hell did they just appear like that? How did they get me down to my car? I have vague recollections of driving, but why would I just take off and leave you there? Jesus. I was so terrified when I woke up and thought about what they might have done to you. Especially after I guilted you into going.” She turned frightened eyes to me. “What happened?”

Without thinking, I almost blurted out the truth. I was right on the verge of unburdening myself about the existence of vampires, homicidal rituals and the reality of one psychotic, murdering bloodsucker in particular — I’d actually gone so far as to form the first word with my lips — when I remembered who I was sitting with, and, more importantly, what she did for a living.

I held Maxie’s gaze, adopted my most compassionate therapist expression and hoped Victoria had been exaggerating about my inability to bluff.

Maxie had told me she’d never found any evidence for the existence of the paranormal. She had also said she was worried about her job. It didn’t take a brain surgeon to figure out what she’d do with any information I shared. Even if she couldn’t prove anything I said, it wouldn’t matter. I’d be the story: just another chapter in the crazed adventures of a formerly respected local psychologist who’d gone round the preternatural bend. Given the rag she worked for, proof wouldn’t be an issue.

No matter how much I needed someone to talk to, I couldn’t put myself or my clients in jeopardy by indulging in loose lips.

I reached across the table and took her hand. “What do you remember?”

She studied my face for a moment, frowned and broke eye-contact, staring down at the table. She extricated her hand from mine and lifted her coffee mug. I got a sudden flash that Maxie was hiding something, which was weird, because I was the one trying to avoid telling any impossible tales.

This sudden intuitive flash about Maxie made me realize I hadn’t had any hits about her before — not even when we first met. I replayed our time together, trying to recall any instances where my psychic radar had given me insights about her, and drew a blank. I couldn’t think of any other time in my life when I’d been unable to sense someone’s emotions or read between the lines, especially since my skills had been given the elders’ upgrade. So either my empathic and clairsentient abilities were on the fritz, or Maxie shielded better than anyone I’d ever met.

She raised her gaze to mine. “I remember us lying on our bellies on the balcony, checking out the chubby guy being killed on the stage below — or pretending to be killed, whatever. Although the guy was pretty convincing. I’d just started snapping photos again when I was lifted off the floor by a couple of creeps in black robes, and there’s a page missing in my memory book at that point. I surfaced later, long enough to observe myself driving. But how the hell could I “observe myself driving”? What does that even mean? Did you see them take me?” She pointed to herself.

“Yes, I did. They must have sneaked up behind us because I didn’t hear them coming. There had to be a staircase up to the balcony from the main floor. Maybe they’d been watching us the whole time.”

“I don’t know.” She didn’t sound convinced. “I think I would’ve heard a couple of men creeping up behind me. I’ve got a black belt in paranoia — I’ve always prided myself on being able to sense the freaks before they get close enough to hassle me. Even if there was a staircase, that doesn’t explain why I don’t remember anything.”

I sighed. “Yeah, that’s true.” It was official: I sucked at lying. Dancing around the truth was making me feel like shit. Technically, I had no actual proof about why her memory was impaired, but I’d seen evidence of a certain bloodsucking sociopath’s mind-control abilities, and I knew full well he’d erased Maxie’s mental tapes. But as I wasn’t going to risk exposing myself and my clients to another media-blitz of ridicule and scorn I’d say whatever was necessary to point her in a different direction. And maybe I could manage to convince myself that I was protecting her from horrors she really didn’t need to know about.

“Do you think you might have been drugged?”

Her eyebrows shot up her forehead. “Drugged? How the hell could I have been drugged? I didn’t eat or drink anything — but hey, come to think of it, I was pretty hung-over when I woke up a little while ago.”

“It’s relatively easy to administer a sedative using a syringe. You might not even feel the needle. That would explain the memory loss.”

She stared at me with her mouth open. “Holy shit.” Her voice rose. “You mean those bogus little perverts might have taken me for some disgusting sexual reason? You’re saying they might have
done
something to me? That they—”

I raised my hands and cried, “Stop! Wait—”
Way to go, Kismet. Make everything a thousand times worse, why don’t you. You are the worst liar on the face of the earth.
“Listen, you said you woke up still wearing your clothes, didn’t you? So if they’d done anything to you, they probably wouldn’t have left everything on, right?”