Crimson Psyche (4 page)

Her passionate diatribe had captured the attention of everyone in the coffee shop and the room was so quiet you could hear a vampire fang descend.

Noticing she was center-stage, Maxie smiled, stood and spread her arms wide, acknowledging one side of the room, then the other. Her long veil of hair swayed as she moved. “Thank you, America. Thank you for this honor. They like me! They really like me!” she said, imitating a famous old Academy Awards acceptance speech.

I straightened in my seat.
Holy crap — bipolar? Borderline Personality Disorder?
Either Maxie was a certifiable candidate for a rubber room, or she was the most free-spirited — definitely exhibitionistic — person I’d met in a long time, maybe ever. I really hoped it was the latter.

“Give ’em hell!” yelled a young man wearing a backward baseball cap. He thrust his fist into the air and the other customers applauded.

She bowed dramatically, lifted her hair out of the way and dropped back into her chair.

“If I hadn’t found fame and fortune as a magazine reporter, I woulda gone into acting. And who knows? If this job doesn’t pan out, I still might.” She slapped her thigh with her palm, threw back her head and howled like a wolf.

Shit. She howled! Maybe we should head over to my office...

The other Starbucks customers applauded again, some howling back at her. Apparently they were used to her theatrics.

Temporarily setting aside my concerns about her mental health, I clapped along with the rest of the audience, giving her the benefit of the doubt.

“Don’t mind me, Doc.” She drank from her mug, and then patted my arm. “I don’t get many chances to perform, so I take my opportunities as I find them.”

I watched her bask in the adulation and decided she was probably normal-weird as opposed to clinically weird. “Wow, you’re passionate about your skepticism. No fence-sitting for you, eh?” I sipped my cooling coffee.

“Yeah, that’s me. The Opinionated Cynic, the Know-It-All Pessimist. The Been-There, Done-That-And-Found-It-Boring Mocker. So, what about you? Are you a skeptic, or do you really buy all the stuff your clients try to sell?” She lasered her gaze to mine for a moment, and then leaped up. “Off to the powder room. Be right back.”

Yikes. Another mood shift.

“Okay,” I said, watching her hair disappear toward the bathroom. I played with the corner of the napkin, curling and uncurling it. Was I a skeptic? Tricky question. If she’d asked me six months ago, I’d have honestly said I agreed with her assessment completely: vampires, wizards, witches, ghosts, and all those other preternatural phenomena were all imaginary, or delusional. No rational person could believe in fairy-tale or horror-movie creatures of the night, no reasonable, sane person would give credibility to nocturnal creepy-crawlies.

But in the last half-year I’d peeked under the bed and found the monsters. There really was a vampire tapping at my window. Hell, forget tapping. Devereux didn’t bother with a window, he just popped in wherever he wanted and dazzled me with his platinum hair and turquoise eyes. Skepticism was no longer an option.

Unless, of course, I’d gone completely bonkers and all my experiences could be explained away by a brain aneurysm or epileptic seizures. I took the possibility of medically-induced insanity very seriously. I’d actually gone as far as to have myself tested, just to rule out those probabilities, as the scientific part of me stubbornly refused to acknowledge what appeared to be happening. As glad as I was to find myself aneurysm-free, that meant the simplest explanations were probably true, or to paraphrase Sherlock Holmes, when analyzing a complicated situation, after you remove all the unnecessary elements, whatever is left — no matter how peculiar — must be true. Not being able to blame the vampires on a brain disorder meant that the simple fact, that vampires exist, must be accurate. But just because I understood that twisted reality didn’t mean I’d totally made peace with it, no matter how many vampire clients I had, or how enmeshed into the bloodsucking culture I had become.

Maxie waved her hand in front of my face and tapped my nose and I jumped. My gaze reconnected with hers.

“Shit, Doc, where’d you go? Does dementia run in your family? That was another long pause. You must drive your clients nuts with that silent, staring thing. I’ve never understood how you shrinks do that.”

“Sorry. I’m just distracted.”
I got enough sleep last night. What the hell’s going on?

“Should I go all Freudian and read something into it? Are you avoiding the topic?” She smiled with her mouth, but her eyes were serious, calculating.

“No, I’m not avoiding the topic.” I straightened in my chair and ignored the questions I saw in her eyes. “I’m just thinking about how much I want to say. No matter what my personal opinion might be about vampires, I do have clients who either believe they’re bloodsuckers or who want to become one. Even if you aren’t interviewing me right now, it’s possible you might be tempted to use what I tell you in a future article and I can’t take the chance that my clients might be harmed. If I say I don’t believe in the undead, that could crush the trust I’m building with my clients. If they think I’m humoring them, they’ll feel betrayed and our progress will stop. So I can truthfully say that I’m keeping an open mind about whether or not vampires exist.”

Not bad — actually sounds plausible, especially as I’m keeping more than my mind open to the idea.

Maxie took a breath, maybe getting ready to ask another question, but I was on a roll now. “I
will
say that I’ve seen things that shake my notions of what’s real and what isn’t. Even in my non-vampire-wannabe clients, the mind is capable of creating astounding things. Think about all the horrors humans have caused throughout the ages. It raises the question of who really are the monsters.”

“Yeah.” She sat back in her chair. “You’ll get no argument from me there. People definitely suck. Monsters are everywhere. I hear what you’re saying about your clients, so I’ll respectfully stop talking about vampires.” She clicked her spoon on the side of her coffee mug and absently ran her tongue over her front teeth for a few seconds. Her eyes were still riveted on mine, but she appeared deep in thought. “This whole discussion has given me a terrific idea. Are you free this evening?”

My eyebrows crawled up my forehead. I hadn’t expected that. Despite my intention to respond in my habitual way, with my standard “I’m already committed” speech, I surprised myself by saying something totally different: “Maybe. My plans are flexible. Why do you ask?”

Perhaps I really
was
willing to make some changes — to step outside my rigid social comfort zone. Whaddya know? Therapist, heal thyself.

She smiled widely. “I’ve been invited to a vampire staking. Wanna come?”

A vampire staking.

My mouth dropped open and I stared at Maxie. How silly of me to assume she’d suggest something totally inappropriate, like meeting for dinner, or going to a lecture, or maybe listening to a local jazz band. What was I thinking? That would’ve been the height of boredom, the epitome of the mundane, so pitifully human. Why settle for routine when we could watch vampires being killed?

No, thanks. I’ve already seen that movie.

I closed my mouth and cleared my throat. “Run that by me again?”

She threw back her head and laughed. “Wow. I wish I could read minds right now, because I’d pay money to know what just flashed through your brain. You should’ve seen your face! Like I kicked your puppy. Or you thought the topic was serious.”

“You mean you were kidding about being invited to a vampire staking?”

“Oh, hell no. I get invited to that sort of weird shit all the time. Vampire stakings, werewolf hunts, devil-worshiping ceremonies, exorcisms, witch burnings — any and every freaky thing you can imagine. Welcome to my sick little world. It’s all bullshit: blatant cries for attention from the perverts and deviants who populate my journalistic universe.”

“So you’re covering the event for your magazine?”

“I am indeed. I’ve got to admit that sometimes the costumes and fake monster props are worth the price of admission. I know you’re dedicated to helping the terminally confused, but in my line of work, the mentally ill can be downright entertaining. I thought you’d enjoy exploring another aspect of the vampire wannabe community. Wouldn’t the Vampire Psychologist want to understand as much as possible about her potential clientele? Who knows, some of these folks might end up on your couch.”

If she knew how crowded my couch already was, and who — or
what
— regularly came to sit on it, she’d be in yellow-journalism heaven. As much as I wanted to make some new friends, I was pretty sure that Maxie’s idea of fun dangled a little further over the abyss than mine.

She did have a point, though. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt me to explore the twisted layers of the vampire community, wannabe and otherwise. I couldn’t always just wait for the lost souls to show up at my office — after all, I still had a book to write. I wasn’t willing to completely ignore the academic portion of my professional responsibilities, and a chapter about an alleged vampire staking could re-energize my muse.

Or not.

Now that I’d considered the possibility, even thinking about going to some vampire-inspired event with a reporter made my head hurt. I knew I was asking for trouble, even without my radar flashing.

Nope. Definitely need to stay home and wash my hair tonight.

I started to decline the invitation but I was interrupted by a small, rodent-like bald man who bounded into the coffee shop and scurried over to our table.

“Hey, Maxie. Boss wants ya, pronto. Deadline, ya know, chop-chop.”

He reversed direction and sprinted out as quickly as he’d entered.

“Yeah, thanks, Dave,” Maxie shouted at his retreating form.

“How did he know you were here?” I asked.

“I hide here as often as possible.”

“Why didn’t they just call you?” I didn’t see a phone, but she could have had one in her pocket.

“What’s the good of sneaking off somewhere if I’m going to carry my cell phone with me? That sort of defeats the “hiding” part, doesn’t it?” She gave an exaggerated sigh and tapped the tip of her index finger against the end of her nose. “Officially putting nose back to grindstone now. I’ll see you tonight.” She stood in a fluid motion, beamed me a mischievous smile and danced gracefully to the exit.

“Maxie, wait!” I leaped up out of my chair. “I don’t want to go to a vampire staking!”

The room went still.

I heard Maxie laugh as she reached the exit. She raised one hand in the air, waving good-bye. “No chickening out now, Doc. I’ll leave directions to the vampire deal on your voicemail. See you there at 10 p.m. Hey. Nice ta meetcha.” Her last words were muffled by the closing door.

“Dammit to hell!” I slammed my palm down on the table, sending a spoon clattering to the floor. The metallic sound echoed in the silence, and immediately embarrassed by my theatrical overreaction, I eased down into my chair, folded my arms across my chest and scanned the sea of raised eyebrows. It was as if a cosmic
pause
button had been pushed. Everyone in the room was posed, frozen in place, staring at me. Maybe they were waiting to see what other temperamental outbursts I had up my sleeve. Too bad I couldn’t make my head spin all the way around or levitate off my chair.

As far as I was concerned, the show was over. Elvis had definitely left the building.

The silence persisted for a few seconds longer and then, as if an invisible switch had been thrown, the noise volume resumed its normal level of controlled chaos.

I lifted my half-full mug and took a healthy swig before discovering it was cold. I glared at the cup like it was the cause of my meltdown. What the hell had I gotten so angry about? The radio show with Carson had been irritating and the conversation with Hallow disturbing, but I’d handled worse before without losing my cool.

It had recently occurred to me that my professional training had a downside. All my therapeutic reserve and ability to remain silent while integrating client information was great in a clinical setting, but it sucked big-time in interpersonal situations. I’d let Maxie manipulate me and it pissed me off, though I was angrier with myself than at her.

Of course I wasn’t going to some pathetic gathering of attention-seeking occultists and rebellious goth teenagers. It didn’t matter what Maxie thought was going to happen. I didn’t owe her anything, and I’d made my decision blatantly clear. To my credit, I’d been open to doing something normal with her, something relaxing. It wasn’t my fault that she was obsessed with her job.

Yeah, like I’m not obsessed with mine.

I slid the coffee mug to the center of the table, gathered my things and strode to the door, grumbling under my breath.

In the hallway, the elevator doors popped open as soon as I pressed the
down
button, and Carson’s voice blasted, “Take it off! Take it all off!” from the speakers.

I cringed, reminded that no matter what kinds of paranormal monsters might be hiding in the closet, we humans were capable of spewing our fair share of ugliness into the world.

I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the temperature.

***

The downtown skyscraper housing the radio station was only a few blocks from my office. The thick fog and overcast skies of the morning had magically transformed into another of Denver’s famous sunny, clear masterpieces. I rolled down my car window, trailed my hand through the brisk air and allowed the tight muscles in my neck and shoulders to relax. I hadn’t realized how stressed out and tense I’d been. Evidently handling a brain-dead radio host and discovering the existence of a self-proclaimed day-walking vampire punched the needle on my weirdness meter higher than usual.

Springtime in the Rockies was as unpredictable as an adolescent’s mood. The blizzard that had paralyzed the area a few days ago, blanketing the Mile High City in several feet of snow, had retreated east, leaving us with an already melting winter wonderland, some much-needed moisture and postcard-perfect mountain scenery. Days like this reaffirmed why I chose to live here.

I pulled through the underground parking lot and cruised into my very own space, a smile easing across my lips. Even the garage was immaculate. I’d had my doubts about moving into Devereux’s building when he offered last Halloween. After all, who knew how long my relationship with the mysterious bloodsucker would last? But so far things had worked out well. Better than well, actually, especially now that my mind was no longer an open book to him. Everything about my new arrangement — the architecture, furnishings, location — was a perfect reflection of Devereux’s style and elegance.

Thinking about the scary, humiliating circumstances surrounding the move from my old office flipped my smile into a frown. I’d actually been kicked out, which was not something I’d be adding to my
curriculum vitae
anytime soon. Discovering the dead body and blood-soaked walls and carpets, a parting gift from the violent and mentally ill Brother Luther, had left a bad taste in the building manager’s mouth, and I couldn’t really blame him. I hadn’t quite forgiven myself for completely misreading the cues about the emotionally disturbed vampire, even though I hadn’t yet accepted the possibility then, much less the reality, of vampires. Denial can be such a comfortable place to hide.

Of course, Brother Luther — and his murdering alter ego Lucifer — was no longer a problem, since his ectoplasmic mate had shown up in the nick of time to prevent him from draining me dry. Then she retrieved his soul and yanked him from the land of the unliving. That experience had to rank as my most strange to date.

Soft Celtic music caressed the airwaves during the elevator ride to the main level of the building, where the doors parted without a sound, ushering me into an architectural marvel. Five months in residence hadn’t yet dulled my appreciation of the breathtaking beauty of the gold and marble lobby. Devereux had spared no expense in creating a stunning space, filled with exquisite furniture and incredible artwork, including his own. The fancy address was the headquarters for most of his business enterprises. My counseling practice was the only “outside” company allowed in, and I still wasn’t comfortable with getting such special treatment, especially as I knew the ‘reasonable’ rent he charged me was a mere fraction of the market value. Luckily, as I said, denial is my friend.

I walked across the lobby, listening to the echoing clicks of my heels on the imported marble tiles as I made for the reception area. Victoria Essex waved a hand in greeting and gave a wide smile from behind her ornate desk. Of all the positive aspects of moving to this office, meeting Victoria had definitely been one of the highlights.

“Kismet! Isn’t this a marvelous day?” Still smiling, Victoria shot out of her chair and glided over to me with her arms extended in preparation for one of her friendly hugs. Gathering me close, she squeezed enthusiastically, then stepped back, grasping my upper arms. “Are you okay? I heard that Carson idiot on the radio this morning. Was he as big an asshole as he sounded? He made me seriously reconsider my vow to do no harm!” Her eyes sparkled with humor.

I leaned forward and gave her a quick peck on the cheek. “
Asshole
is an understatement. He’s definitely toad material. Are you sure I can’t talk you into casting just one little spell?” We both laughed.

“Can you come and sit for a minute? I haven’t seen you for days.” Without waiting for my answer, she grabbed my free hand and tugged me over to a nearby couch.

Victoria was a study in contrasts. Her face always reminded me of a Shirley Temple doll I’d once seen in an antique shop: her naturally curly, golden-blonde hair was chin-length, with tight spirals framing a heart-shaped face. Sharp cheekbones, dimples, a straight nose and round, peridot-green eyes gave her the appearance of the exotic girl next door. Her body was a different story. It was voluptuous in the richest sense of the word — wide hips, rounded belly and generous breasts: the self-identified Wiccan Mae West. She was several inches shorter than me, but she favored very high wedges, so we usually saw eye to eye.

Half the fun of coming to my office was checking out Victoria’s daily wardrobe choice. She had a vast collection of flowing goddess dresses in vibrant colors and a never-ending supply of gemstone jewelry, much of which she made herself. Today’s gown was vibrant green velvet.

In addition to being Devereux’s building manager, she was the high priestess of a local coven of witches, and the owner of an Internet-based Wiccan ritual supply business.

She locked eyes with me, her face serious. “Are you going to tell Devereux about the vampire hunter who called the radio show or do you want me to?”

The question took me by surprise and my jaw dropped. Not only because Victoria had never mentioned vampires in any form before, but because the scary on-air bloodsucker had insisted that none of the radio listeners could hear him.

My facial expression must have said it all, because she answered, frowning, “Yes. I heard him. Every evil word. He’s very powerful.”

My brain spun for a few seconds, questions lining up, elbowing each other as they all tried to cram through the doorway to my mouth.
Of course
she had to know about vampires. How could she work for Devereux for so many years without being aware of the fanged elephant in the room? “
I’ll
tell Devereux.”

Then I focused on the important point. “Wait a minute. If you could hear him, then he lied about nobody being aware of our discussion. So why should I believe he was a vampire? He was probably just another lost soul nut-case seeking attention.”

She clasped my hand. “No, he’s exactly what he said he is. I could hear him because I have the unique ability to resist the powers of the undead. That’s one of the reasons Devereux hired me — I’m his bloodsucker bullshit detector.”

I stared at her, speechless. Once again my reality basket turned out to be nothing more than a sieve, allowing trickles of long-held truths to stream away into oblivion. I’d been so eager to leap to my erroneous conclusions about sweet Earth Mother Victoria that I’d missed yet another train leaving the parallel universe station. Like everyone, I saw the world through my own expectations, beliefs and limitations, but I was continually astounded by the evidence of how narrow my lens really was — and how relentlessly I still clung to my notions of “real”.

She grinned. “New information, eh? I’m not exactly what you thought I was, right?” She patted my hand. “I figured we’d get around to telling each other the truth one of these days. The vampire hunter showing up has just kicked the schedule’s butt a little. I spoke up because I wanted to make sure you realized what you’re dealing with. I think it’s highly meaningful that he wanted to talk to you specifically.”