The Vampire Shrink (14 page)

“Great. I'll be right there. Put on some coffee, okay?”

“What?” I sat up.
The pushy bastard. I didn't expect him to take me up on it—and certainly not immediately.
“Wait a minute! I need to shower and get dressed. You can't come over now!”

“How much time do you need?”

There was that cocky tone again, the tone that said he assumed I'd be spending hours primping in front of the mirror.

“Give me half an hour.”

“Half an hour. Will do.”

“Hey, hold on—don't you need me to give you directions to my house?”

He chuckled. “FBI, remember? We've got all those handy little records. See you in thirty.”

I hung up the phone and rolled out of my comfortable bed, still on automatic pilot. Then I stumbled around and turned on the light. I managed to remove all the damp sheets, threw them into the laundry hamper, and headed to the shower. It took ten minutes of standing like a statue under the hot spray before the sensation of something crawling on my skin receded and I felt somewhat normal again.

I stood with my arms braced against the tile walls enclosing the bathtub, willing the hot water to wash away the fearful residue from the nightmare. The sound of the hideous laughter still echoed through my inner world, reverberating like a ghostly memory.

I picked up a bar of soap and reveled in the sensation of it gliding over my skin, and began to feel renewed—to come back to myself. I slid the bar over one side of my neck, kneading gently, and when I lathered the other side I was startled by a sharp jolt of pain. Instinctively, I dropped the soap, which hit the bottom of the tub with a loud thud as I explored the tender skin with my fingers.

“Shit!” I stepped away from the water and gingerly slid my finger over the painful area, mentally shaking off another layer of drowsiness.

Touching the wound on my neck brought the horrible events of the previous evening back to me in living color: some demented maniac had broken into my office and punctured my neck with his teeth.

His teeth! What movie was it where the psycho put on his grandmother's sharpened dentures and chewed on his victims? How the hell did they get into my office? What a miserable night. First the psychopaths, then the dream. Oh yes—and let's not forget cocky FBI agents, although I guess this didn't qualify as “night” anymore.

That nightmare was off the charts. I couldn't remember ever having such a vivid, terrifying dream before—all that blood and existential emptiness. Maybe those assholes coming to my office last night had frightened me even more than I'd realized. The dream was probably a reaction to their threats and my feelings of mortality. The standard death dream. Or an indication that my brain was turning into scrambled eggs. Well, whatever it was, I'd have to sort it out later.

I hadn't even begun to think about whether or not I should report the attack to the police. There was the confidentiality issue to consider. Bryce was connected to Midnight, and I couldn't involve her, but if I pressed charges, she'd probably be dragged in.

It was definitely time to move my office to a building with security—cameras, doormen, the whole deal. No more uninvited visitors.

My shower completed, I stepped out and wrapped myself in a thick, extra-large towel. Enjoying the warm feeling, I went over to the mirror, wiped away a patch of fog, and checked out the wound on my neck.

“Damn! What the hell?”

I stared at the carnage. There were two blatant, swollen holes surrounded by an expanse of red with purple, and yellow blotches. It looked as if I'd been ravaged by a wild dog or something. I opened the medicine cabinet, rummaged around for my antiseptic salve, and read the label to see if it said anything about being an effective defense against human germs. I remembered reading something about the germs in a human's mouth being worse than anything else. I hoped that wasn't true.

Antibacterial? Well, I guessed that would be better than nothing. Was there any such thing as an anti-vampire-wannabe medicine? An analgesic to ward off those pesky undead cooties? I'd probably need to get a tetanus shot, at the very least. Yeah. There I was, thinking about this weird situation as if it was just another day at the office …

I dotted some of the medicine on the wound and held an inner debate about the merits of covering it versus letting it breathe. Breathing won. For now.

Touching the bite mark reminded me of Devereux's tongue sliding over my neck, and I had a pleasant body rush. Then I remembered the feel of his lips and noticed my nipples were hard and the area between my thighs was growing warm and wet. I took a quick ride down Possibility Lane as I imagined how it would be to feel his hand there.

The human mind really is resilient. What was I thinking about while patching up the leftovers of my very own psychotic Bela Lugosi's munchfest on my neck? Sex. Sex with Devereux. I definitely didn't get enough sleep.

Still tingling from the mental afterglow, I toweled my hair, sprayed it with a super antitangle concoction, and flipped my head over so that my hair hung down in a thick curtain in front of me. I picked through it with my wide-tooth comb, snarling as I struggled with the clumps of hair that refused to play nice.

I stopped when a simple realization washed over me. It finally penetrated my sleep-clogged brain that I could have told Agent Stevens I was unavailable and would see him at my office later. I could have continued snoozing in my bed. I definitely knew better than to make any decisions before I'd had my caffeine fix. Apparently the events of the previous night plus the demonic nightmare caused me to have an even more intense case of fuzz-brain. The annoyance of my obvious act of stupidity made me fling my head back up with such momentum that the weight of my hair almost gave me whiplash.

“Ouch! Shit!”

I strode into my bedroom and tugged open the door to my walk-in closet, knocking a picture of the Stanley Hotel in Estes Park off the wall.

Okay, temper tantrum accomplished. Next?

I climbed into my favorite baggy jeans and a University of Colorado T-shirt and headed down to the kitchen, fantasizing about that first cup of nirvana.

After I started the Mr. Coffee, I checked my office voice mail to see if Emerald had left a message. She hadn't.

I was pouring my first cup of coffee when Agent Stevens knocked on my door. I didn't usually get up that early, but every time I did, I was reminded of how much I loved watching the sun come up. There's that wonderful feeling of a new beginning, of endless possibilities. This morning in particular I appreciated the beauty, light, and warmth of the dawn.

I let him in, then stood for a moment in the open doorway, watching the light reclaim the sky and enjoying the crisp fall breeze.

“Hey, Earth to Dr. Knight—where do you keep your coffee mugs?”

I jumped when he spoke and glared at my visitor, who was making himself quite at home. He wandered around the kitchen, opened every cupboard and drawer, and then parked himself in front of my open refrigerator. “Holy cow! There's nothing in here but takeout food. Don't you know how to cook? There isn't even any milk for my coffee.”

Is this guy for real?

Waking me up before the crack of dawn was bad enough, but inviting himself over and having an opinion about the state of my refrigerator was over the top. My head pounded, and I simply had no patience for dealing with this arrogant cop. If it hadn't been for my concern about Emerald, I'd have kicked his tight little butt right out the door.

The longer I studied him, the more my anger dwindled. He looked exhausted, as if he hadn't been to bed yet. Either he was wearing the same clothes I'd seen him in at the hospital, or he had a collection of jeans and rumpled white T-shirts. His eyelids drooped, the purple-blue of his eyes looked less vibrant, and his brown hair was a monument to what happens when you use your fingers as a comb.

Come on, Kismet. Don't go getting all warm and gooey now because the guy's worn out. This is a professional consultation. No caretaking allowed.

“Sit down, Special Agent Stevens.” He eased his long frame into one of my kitchen chairs. I poured him a mug of coffee, carried it over to the table, and joined him.

“You can call me Alan, Doc.”

I pulled another clump of my hair over my shoulder, making sure it still covered the ghastly souvenir on my neck. “Well, Alan, how can I help you?”

“Why are you counseling vampires? Don't you know how dangerous that is?”

And to think that for the past year I doubt if I've heard the word “vampire” more than ten times, and now everyone I talk to seems obsessed with it.

I shook my head. “Dangerous? What's dangerous about helping people free themselves from a destructive delusion? It's my job to uncover faulty thinking.”

He paused and raised an eyebrow. “That's the second time you've said something that leads me to believe you don't know what kind of tiger you've got by the tail. Are you seriously telling me you think vampires are delusions? You really don't see the big picture?”

Oh, please. I'm not awake enough for this. I can't believe an FBI guy is talking about vampires.

“Can I see your identification again, Agent Stevens?”

He pulled his picture ID out of his pocket and handed it to me. “You think there's something fishy about an FBI agent discussing vampires?”

I inspected the ID. It appeared authentic, but I really had no way of knowing.

“You read my mind, Agent Stevens.”

“No, I read your face, Dr. Knight.”

I handed his ID back to him. “Don't FBI agents usually work in pairs?

Where's your partner, Agent Stevens?”

“I'm temporarily between partners.” He grinned. “I seem to be an acquired taste—my partners keep asking for transfers. If you're nervous about whether I'm who I say I am, you can call the local police. They know all about me and what I'm doing here. So will you answer my question now? Why are you working with vampires?”

My neck throbbed, and my patience was gone. The good feeling I'd gained from the hot shower was retreating at the speed of light.

“Special Agent Stevens, I didn't get up this early to discuss fairy tales or cartoon characters, and unless there is some aspect of psychology that I can help you with, I think we're finished.”

“Wow,” he said, slapping his palms on his thighs, “you really don't know. I figured when I saw your ad in the paper that you knew what you were dealing with, but you're flying blind. You're messing with things you don't understand, and somebody needs to enlighten you. It might as well be me.”

“I don't think that's necessary.” I sighed and stood.

“Wait.” He grabbed my wrist.

My breath caught. I instinctively jerked my arm out of his grip and took a step back. Nobody else was going to put his hands on me uninvited. I glared at him. “Don't touch me.”

“I'm sorry.” He held his hands up in surrender. “That was inexcusable. I get overly excited sometimes, especially when I don't get any sleep. I promise to control myself. Please, hear me out. I think you'll be intrigued by what I have to say.”

Please
? I stared into his watery, bloodshot eyes and saw what appeared to be sincerity. Or maybe it was simply exhaustion. Something about the determined set of his jaw and his easy smile convinced me to sit back down at the table and give him the benefit of the doubt. “I'm listening.” I crossed my arms over my chest.

“Thank you.” He mimicked my defensive posture. “First, let me give you a little background, to show you that I didn't start out as a believer either. You and I actually have a lot in common—I have a PhD in psychology too.”

My mouth formed into an O.

It was apparent he saw the surprise on my face. “Yeah, Dr. Stevens, at your service. I never intended to be a therapist—my interests lie with the criminal mind. So when I was recruited by the FBI's Behavioral Analysis Unit—”

“As in
The Silence of the Lambs
?” I asked.

“Yeah. I jumped at the chance to become a profiler, and I specialize in cases that have paranormal elements. Yep, I can see by the gleam in your eyes that you're drawing comparisons between my work and a certain television program. It's true. Some clever coworker or another is always putting old
X-Files
posters on my door, and my official nickname is Mulder.”

So Special Agent Stevens isn't your normal FBI agent. Interesting.

I had to laugh. I'd enjoyed that program and Agent Mulder's dry, sarcastic sense of humor. Of course, I fancied myself to be more like Scully.

“I'm impressed.” I sipped my coffee. “So what's a profiler like you doing in my kitchen wanting to enlighten me about vampires?” I had to admit that thinking of him as a colleague rather than only a cop was making him even more interesting to me. I was a sucker for a clever mind.