Kismet Knight, Vampire Psychologist 3 - Dark Harvest (18 page)
Read Kismet Knight, Vampire Psychologist 3 - Dark Harvest Online
Authors: Lynda Hilburn
Before I had a chance to think, I was unbuttoning my nightgown. The lustful demon must have taken over my mind, because I’d never have shamed myself without his satanic control.” She thrust herself back against the couch cushions and wrapped her arms around herself. A visible shudder quaked through her body.
“How did you shame yourself, Shirley?” I used my most soothing therapy voice.
Her chin quivered as she tried in vain to resist the memory. “I let him have his way with me,” she whispered, sobbing in earnest now. She swiped the back of her hand under her runny nose, spreading slime along her cheek. Jutting her chin into the air, her voice becoming louder, she rocked back and forth.
“I didn’t try to stop him. I didn’t fight him. It was all my fault. He told me so himself. I’m a bad girl. A very, very bad girl. I must be punished.” Tears streamed down her face.
Recognizing the glassy-eyed stare indicating a self-induced regression, I angled my chair close to hers, plucked a couple of tissues from the nearby box, and gently patted her arm.
“Everything’s okay, Shirley. You’re a wonderful girl. You didn’t do anything wrong. Here, let me wipe those tears away.” I took the opportunity to clean her nose as well as her face, and curled her fingers around the remaining tissue. “You’re safe now, Shirley. No one can hurt you. No one can make you do anything you don’t want to do.”
She turned vacant eyes to me. “He was a monster, you know. A bloodsucking demon waiting to sneak into my room. I can’t sleep because he’ll come again. He always comes.”
I nodded and spoke softly. “He can’t come anymore. He’s dead, Shirley. Your father is long-dead. He can’t hurt you ever again. Do you believe me?”
She nodded, scraping her lower lip with her teeth. “What about the aliens? Are they going to abduct me
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again?”
“No. The aliens won’t return, either. But you’ve got to promise you’ll take your medication every day. It helps to keep the monsters and aliens away. Will you promise?”
An innocent expression flowed across her sixty-five-year-old face, and she smiled sweetly, appearing childlike. “I promise, Dr. Knight. You take such good care of me.”
I met her eyes, letting her see the compassion in mine. “It’s my pleasure. I’d like your permission to call your daughter later today to talk about your medications. Is that okay with you?”
Tilting her head, she thought for a moment, then smiled again. “That’s fine. My daughter is such a good girl. No vampires or aliens will ever hurt her, will they, Dr. Knight?”
“No. She’s safe and well.”
She eased the tip of her tongue along her dry lips, and I slid my gaze toward the water cooler. “Would you like some water before you go?”
She stood and flexed her hands, which had been contracted so tightly the veins popped out. “No, thank you. I’ll see you next week.”
I rose and walked her to the door. “Shirley. You can call me if you have a bad night before our next appointment. I’m always here for you.”
She smiled and left.
I went to my desk, jotted some notes in her file, thinking about Shirley’s delusions and her horror-filled childhood. As was often the case, her psyche compensated for the painful trauma by creating metaphorical fantasies—frightening non-ordinary males who invaded her life and assaulted her body.
Beings who overpowered and victimized her.
Vampires had nothing on sadistic bastards like Shirley’s father.
* * *
Instead of greeting me and taking me to our table, she grabbed my arm, pulling me behind her, as she plowed through the swarms of people back toward the entrance. She bulldozed a path and stopped once we’d reached the sidewalk in front of the café.
“Hey, Doc. Good ta see ya. You’re lookin’ righteous today. Love the blue outfit.” She shook her head and pointed over her shoulder. “This place is a madhouse. No place to sit. There’s some kind of meeting going on—Adult Children of Fucked-Up Alcoholics, Vegetarians, Alien-Abducted Cross-Dressers or something. Let’s head out. I know a place where we can have a private conversation.”
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That’s the second time she’s mentioned my clothing. She’s definitely acting strange.
I glanced at my watch, sensing increasing nervous energy radiating from Maxie. “Where’s this place? I have a client in forty-five minutes. Maybe we should just stop at a deli, grab a sandwich, and talk in the park.” I shaded my eyes from the sun and scanned the horizon. “It would be great to sit outside for a while. The weather’s perfect.”
She tugged on my arm again as she motored down the sidewalk. “Naw. I need a beer and the dive we’re going to is filled with low-life scum, which is appropriate for our topic of conversation.”
What? Low-life scum appropriate for our topic? What the hell did that mean? Was there even a dive bar in this trendy part of town? I’d never had any reason to know the answer to that question and I was even less interested in finding out now. I tried to wrench my arm out of her grip with no success. For a moment, her fingers seemed to be made of iron. “Maxie. I don’t want to go to some crappy bar. I’ll wind up smelling like cigarette smoke. Some of my clients are allergic to it.”
“Nope.” She mimicked smoking a cigarette. “No cig smoke. Haven’t you been paying attention? Almost the entire state of Colorado is smoke-free now. It’s illegal to light up anything in public. Although I can’t promise you won’t emerge wearing
Eau de Low-Life.”
She laughed at her own joke and took a right turn into what appeared to be an alley, navigating us rapidly down the surprisingly clean passage.
I summoned all my strength and jerked my arm out of her grip, coming to an abrupt stop. “Maxie, cut it out. No shit. I really don’t want to go to a bar. I need to go back to my office. What the hell is wrong with you?”
She turned to me, obviously angry, staring off in the distance for a few seconds while she struggled to calm herself. “Okay. Have it your way, Doc. I thought you might need a drink after I tell you my news.
I’m clumsy with this friend stuff, but I just wanted to be supportive. I meet a lot of my sources in that bar, so I’m a familiar face and they leave me to my business. Plus it isn’t likely we’d run into any of Devereux’s flunkies in that kind of shit-hole.”
The alley was in the shade and the lack of the sun’s warmth caused me to shiver. Of course, the chills also could’ve been triggered by the creepy, somewhat sinister ambience of our off-the-beaten-path location. My solar plexus tightened and a headache, previously poking my eyeballs with a screwdriver, picked up a jackhammer, spread out, and got serious. I was feeling more annoyed by the second. Being surrounded by so many domineering people was getting very old. Did I have a sign on my back that said,
“Nice person, take advantage”? My voice held a layer of frost. “Well, what’s the big announcement? I can’t imagine you could have heard anything about Devereux. He’s a very private man.”
She raised her chin and crossed her arms over her chest. “I wonder how well you really know him. Rich guys have a tendency to think they own the world—that they can do whatever they please. And mostly, they can. I just happened to be at The Crypt, interviewing a vampire wannabe who hangs out there, and I overheard a couple of goth types talking about a dangerous guy who’d come to town. Sounded like they were talking about a hit man. Anyway, one said he’d heard Devereux hired the killer. Seems there’s some bad blood between the gorgeous rich guy and one of his managers—a woman named Luna—and Devereux hired the thug to erase his problem. They said it wouldn’t be the first time he had someone killed.” She paused, studying my face. “I’ll bet you didn’t know any of that stuff about your
private
man.”
My stomach clenched with anger. I pressed my lips together and matched Maxie’s arms-across-her-chest stance. Why the hell did she feel the need to repeat ridiculous rumors about
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Devereux? Was she trying to upset me? Was she jealous that I had an in-town romance? She kept mentioning his money—did she fantasize about snagging a wealthy fish?
But right behind the anger was distress, as I allowed the possibility that her assertions were accurate to wash over me. The mention of trouble between Devereux and Luna made my head hurt. He
had
been treating her harshly as of late. I’d noticed it several times. He couldn’t possibly have hired Hallow to kill Luna, could he? No. I refused to believe Devereux could hide something so important from me. But strangeness was definitely afoot. Did he want me to stay away from Hallow so I wouldn’t stumble onto the truth? Was that why he went nuts every time he discovered the psychopath in my thoughts? I shivered. If Devereux could lie to me like that, then I didn’t know him at all.
My face must have reflected the emotional roller coaster I just rode, because a self-satisfied smile spread Maxie’s lips.
“Well, well.” Her arms relaxed to her sides. “I see my little news flash didn’t come as a complete surprise to you.” She paused, frowning. “Hey, I know it’s not my place to be asking a psychologist questions like this, but if Devereux is doing anything to you physically, I hope you’d trust me enough to tell me.”
I experienced a moment of confusion before her meaning sank in. With the realization, my eyes opened wide, brows lifting. “Doing anything physical? Are you talking about violence?” I shook my head.
“Devereux would never do anything to hurt me. In fact, he’s …” Once again, I almost spilled my guts to Maxie—disclosing the bizarre universe I lived in and its undead inhabitants. Either she was one helluva good reporter, or my boundaries were ruptured.
She leaned in, her eyes riveted on mine, smelling a story. “He’s what?”
I heaved a sigh, overwhelmed by the information Maxie had supplied and my emotional reactions. “He’s very gentle and loving. Overprotective, in fact.”
Unless I’m deluding myself.
“I don’t have to tell
you
that isolating and dominating the woman is part of the cycle of abuse.” She pursed her lips, shaking her head at something she must have seen on my face. “Don’t get more pissed off, but that’s not the only time I’ve heard something negative about Devereux. It’s common knowledge that he’s a powerful figure. Dangerous mobster eye candy. So far, nobody’s been able to come up with any firm evidence to link him to organized crime. But it’s only a matter of time.”
Organized crime? Holy shit, is she tuned to the wrong channel.
I smiled. “Devereux isn’t a mobster.”
Maxie smirked and raised one eyebrow. “And you know this because … ? Wait, I know. Because he
told
you. The standard line. Damn. So even a psychologist can be taken in by a great face and a hot body.”
I was tempted to defend Devereux—and myself—but there was no point. Since I couldn’t disclose the truth to Maxie, the explanation she’d come up with was as good as any. “You can think what you like.
He isn’t abusing me, and I’ve seen nothing to lead me to believe he’s involved in organized crime.” I paused, adding some razor blades to my tone. “Not that it’s any of
your
business, but right now, we’re simply enjoying each other’s company. We’ve made no commitments for the future.”
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At least I haven’t.
An emotion resembling sadness shadowed her eyes. “Okay. I get it. It’s none of my business, but I care about you. Don’t shoot the messenger, here. I’m just trying to be a friend. Yeah, I’m doing a fucking bad job of it, but I’m trying. I told you about Devereux because I don’t want you to get hurt.”
I’d been holding myself so tightly that the circulation in my arms had gotten cut off. I shook my hands to restart the flow. I studied Maxie, trying to determine if she was playing me for future journalistic reasons, or if she really cared. I was usually good at reading people—at sensing whether someone was telling the truth or not. But Maxie had been a challenge from the moment I’d met her.
She was either the best actress in the world, or I’d put my foot in it. Since I hadn’t made the best decisions lately, I decided to give her the benefit of the doubt. “I appreciate that. I’m not mad. I want some time to process everything.” I checked my watch again. “I’ve really got to go. Next time, no mystery. If you have something to tell me, just blurt it out as you usually do.” I turned to leave.
“Hey, Ethel,” Maxie hollered. “Are we still friends?”
“Yeah, Lucy,” I yelled over my shoulder. “We’re still … something.”
“… And I’m wearing a black silk teddy underneath this gorgeous dress. Would you like to see?”
The visual was so potent, I had to pretend to cough into my hand to cover the smile that quirked my lips.
“No, thank you, Kenneth. It’s great that you gave yourself permission to act on your desire to cross-dress. That’s a huge breakthrough.”
He looked up at me coquettishly from beneath theatrical-grade false eyelashes and gave a shy smile.
“Are you sure? I know we’ve only talked about my fantasies up until today, but I brought all my clothing and supplies with me—just in case I had the nerve to become Dolly, my alter ego—and, at the last minute, I dashed into the bathroom down the hall and changed.” He laughed. “And I mean
really
changed.”
It was easy to smile at the mild-mannered bank executive who now sat before me dressed as Dolly Parton, and not merely because of his costume. He’d only shared his secret a few weeks earlier, and since he got such pleasure out of his solitary pursuit, I was glad he’d come out of the cubicle. He simply enjoyed going through the ritual of applying makeup, putting on his huge blond wig, and stuffing his two hundred pounds into a form-fitting, sequined, low-cut outfit. We hadn’t yet discussed where his interest might lead.
“How does it feel to be Dolly?”
His face lit up. “It feels amazing. But I’m not wearing all the props today. When I’m home alone, I paste on long, red fingernails and I use them as guitar picks to play my acoustic. Just like
she
does.” He slid his hands under the drooping fake breasts and lifted them with a sigh. “I need to find a much better bra.
Dolly is very well-endowed and most undergarments simply aren’t up to the task.”
“I’m sure you’ll find what you need. Maybe Victoria’s Secret would be a good place to try.”
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Does Victoria’s Secret lingerie come in husky?
I eased my gaze to the clock on the wall. “But we’re out of time for today.” We both stood and he extended his hand for me to shake, as he always did. “I really appreciate you letting Dolly come today. It meant the world to me.”
I wouldn’t have missed it for anything. A little lighthearted relief in the midst of bloodsucking madness. I should be paying you.
“The session was powerful, Kenneth. I’m very proud of you.” I noticed he wasn’t carrying anything, and wondered where his “regular” clothes were. “Did you leave your business suit in the restroom?” I smiled.
“Your employees at the bank probably aren’t quite ready to meet Dolly yet.”
He chuckled. “Yes. All my stuff’s in the bathroom.” He pressed one hand to his bulbous breasts, fanned himself with the other, and spoke with a high-pitched Southern accent. “Gosh, golly, I hope it’s all still there!”
I walked him to the door, smiling. “See you next week.” He wobbled down the hallway on his size-twelve stiletto heels.
A two-hundred-pound Dolly Parton with a moustache and goatee definitely qualified as the highlight of my day so far. But the sun hadn’t set yet, so who knew what the vampire portion of the program might offer?
* * *
Something bad must have happened. I couldn’t shake the feeling that she was in danger.
Victoria’s large, beautiful, hand-carved desk sat like a forlorn, abandoned ship in a sea of imported marble. Thanks to the nocturnal requirements of most of the building’s tenants, the lobby was often semi-deserted, but Victoria’s absence exaggerated the emptiness. Her work station was the nerve center of the realm. Devereux counted on the clever witch to keep his mysterious universe functioning while he sequestered himself away during the daylight hours. He’d mentioned once that discovering Victoria was an even bigger workaholic than himself was an unexpected bonus. She thrived on juggling multiple projects, and had even shown up for work once covered with fur from a spell gone bad.
My heels clicked on the polished floor as I approached her vacant desk. I paused for a moment, staring through the floor-to-ceiling glass framing two sides of the lobby, appreciating the soft light reflecting off the peaks of the distant mountains as the sun retreated. A rush of heat suffused my body and everything slowed. Victoria had once explained an experience she called stepping behind the veil—entering a time out of time. She said her coven often created sacred space for spell casting, and there was a distinct sensory trace left behind by the ritual. For the first time, I understood what she’d been talking about. Not
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even one car drove through my line of sight on the busy road. As I centered myself in that odd stillness, my heart began to race and my stomach tightened with anxiety.
Fear.
The very air in the lobby seemed saturated with it.
Had Victoria left an energy echo for my benefit?
I circled the desk, studying the clutter of papers covering its usually pristine surface. Her favorite mug—which read, “My other car is a broom”—sat half-empty on a napkin, next to a partially eaten muffin, and all of the drawers were open to varying degrees. Someone had obviously been rummaging for something. I had a sudden recollection of Maxie saying she’d gone through Victoria’s desk, searching for a key card. Had she caused this mess? Was she that thoughtless? The distasteful possibility sat heavy in my chest. I really liked Maxie, but could a reporter ever be trustworthy?
Without thinking, I sat in Victoria’s chair and immediately sank into her energy. It surrounded me like warm water and I closed my eyes, dropping into the powerful vibe. Strobe-light visuals flashed through my mind like fragments of an LSD trip. None of the pictures made sense, but even though I couldn’t focus on the content, I was certain the scenes were about Victoria. The imagery was chaotic—surreal.
Darkly occult. Whether I was picking up her old memories, or receiving information about her current whereabouts, I had no idea. But regardless, it felt ominous.
We needed to find Victoria.
Maxie was right about my tendency to drift away with my eyes open, because by the time I blinked to rouse myself, the sun had gone completely behind the mountains and the orange-pink light show had morphed into red-purple.
The coming of the night meant gearing up for the arrival of my first sanguinary client of the evening. Since they transported themselves directly into my office, I usually tried to be present to greet them. I shook my head to clear the cobwebs and scooted the chair back to rise. As I grabbed the edge of the desk, my gaze locked on a long hair stretched along the scattered white papers.
I lifted it, letting it dangle down in front of my face. “Damn! I could make a hair sweater out of all the strands I shed in a single day.” Then I looked closer. My hair was long—even curly it hung halfway down my back. This hair was a similar color to mine, but much longer. And straight. I held it by both ends. If it wasn’t mine, it wasn’t Victoria’s—her mane was golden—and it wasn’t the snow-white of Maxie’s, then whose was it?
A memory of Hallow leaning against a white column in my dream floated into my awareness. His hair had been blowing in the breeze. His very long, dark hair.
No. I tensed. The murdering psychopath couldn’t have gotten into the building. Hadn’t Devereux said it was magically protected? I couldn’t allow myself to believe Hallow had anything to do with Victoria being missing-in-action, because if he was involved, the possibilities were too horrible to imagine.
I glanced at the ever-darkening sky, wrapped the long hair around my finger, and hurried to the elevator.
I pressed the button for my floor and closed my eyes, concentrating on sensing whether Devereux had risen yet. Damn him for not telling me where he spent his days. He knew I had clients this evening, so he wouldn’t stop by right away. How was I supposed to tell him about Victoria?
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“What about Victoria?”
I sagged with relief at Devereux’s velvet voice in my mind, and almost threw myself on him when he appeared in the elevator, wearing his normal dark leather and a light green silk shirt. I wrapped my arms around his waist, crushing my cheek against his chest for a few seconds, breathing in his spicy fragrance.
He held me close. It felt wonderful to touch him. I hadn’t realized how frightened I was for Victoria and how much I needed loving, physical contact. “She’s gone. Something awful has happened. I can feel it.”
Rallying from my mini-panic attack, I remembered what I’d found, released my grip on him, and backed up a step. I held out my finger, and unwound the dark strand. “Here. This was on her desk. Her morning tea and muffin were only half-finished, and everything was a mess. Someone had rifled through her papers.”
Face serious, he lifted the hair from my hand and studied it, silent. Then he rubbed it between his thumb and first finger. “There is no life force present. This hair did not come from a mortal.”
“It’s Hallow’s hair. I’m certain.”
His eyes narrowed as he raised them to mine. Strong negative emotion radiated from him. He spoke slowly, his voice low. “And how is it you are certain of this?”
Psychic abilities weren’t necessary for me to sense he was working hard to control his anger, and I considered taking another step back, but decided to hold my ground. Devereux was probably going to blow a fang because I hadn’t told him about the dream where Hallow declared himself a god. But none of that mattered now. All that was important was finding Victoria. Alive and well.
My lips had gone dry and I had to lick them before I could speak. I didn’t think any explanation would satisfy him, but I pressed on. “It seems logical, because when I found the long hair, I remembered dreaming about him after you held the ritual for me in your room beneath The Crypt. In the dream his long hair fanned out in the wind, and it’s too coincidental to find such a hair on Victoria’s desk when she’s gone missing.”
He appeared deceptively calm but his energy had sharp claws. “And why did you not inform me of this dream? We spent hours together last night. You had ample opportunity to share this information with me.” He paused, his features tightening. “Is it because you enjoy your time with him?” He tilted his head, studying me.
Startled by his intuitive question, I cleared my throat to give myself a few seconds to regroup. “No! Of course not.” I gazed into his beautiful turquoise eyes, and recognized pain—and disappointment—there.
“I just didn’t want to talk about Hallow anymore. I didn’t want you to get upset again—like you are now.”
The elevator had long since stopped at my floor, the doors gaping. Devereux turned, stepped out into the hallway, and extended a hand to me, frowning. “Come. See to your client. He is in your office. I will take care of everything else and we will continue this discussion later.”
I opened my mouth to ask another question and he vanished.
I walked slowly to my office door, my stomach churning. I’d forgotten to tell him about Maxie using the key card to get into my office and her theory about him hiring a “hit man.” He’d been so upset, maybe I
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simply hadn’t had the courage to raise more issues.
But was he right about Hallow? Was it true? Did I enjoy my time with the madman? I couldn’t deny that studying such an ancient vampire was intriguing. When would I get such an opportunity again? But was that all? Were my motives only professional? For some reason, even thinking about Hallow caused my nipples to harden. Victoria said she’d seen us together at my house, and that it was sexual. Had I been with Hallow and didn’t remember? Was that why my heart pounded at the thought of him? Was it a simple attraction to a handsome male, or was this beyond my control? Devereux said Hallow made women desire him like addicts craved heroin. Was the madman still manipulating me? It was terrifying to think that he might be able to control me again. Had he planted thoughts of himself in my psyche? How much freedom of choice did I really have? Who was in charge of me? I shook my head at the strangeness of those questions.
* * *
He reminded me of the death-obsessed, young male character in that quirky, old film
Harold and
Maude.
“I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting, Jerome. I’m glad you made yourself comfortable.” I closed the door and sat in my chair. I swept my personal problems off my mental table and focused on my client.
The grad school professors who’d trained us to cultivate a dispassionate professional mask would be so proud of me now—even if they’d never envisioned this particular clientele. But was
I
proud of me? I used to be so pleased at my ability to emotionally disengage. Now I found myself distressed by that same skill.
