The Vampire Shrink (18 page)

“Yes. I do work with people who believe they're vampires. You're very good.”

“But you don't believe?”

“No, of course not.”

She seemed to think that was very funny, because she put one hand on her chest and laughed for a few seconds. “I envy you your journey. If you're brave, your life will become extraordinary. Even as stubborn as you are.”

I let the stubborn comment pass. “What do you know about the vampires?”

“I'm very psychic. I've always been aware of nonhumans—not only vampires—and of a growing darkness that's pure evil. There are a few places in the world where this evil is manifesting. Denver is such a place. You're to play a key role. Even more important, you're to learn to love and be loved. You'll find the courage to open your heart.”

Cerridwyn certainly had a flair for the dramatic. Pure evil in Denver? Nonhumans?

“Well, I have to say that I was expecting a canned prediction, but you've been very creative. I want to pay you for your time.”

She reached across the table and grabbed my hand, her expression suddenly serious. “There is danger tonight. It's too late for the young woman you seek. Don't be afraid of your own abilities—they will save you.”

The burrito churned in my stomach. I was afraid to ask what she meant by the comment about the young woman, so I just sat there staring at her.

“I hope this reading was helpful to you. Come and see me again when you're ready to ask the right questions and to hear the answers.” She reached into a pocket in her shirt. “Here's my card. Call me when you find that courage. Remember that nothing comes to you without your invitation, even if you don't realize you're sending it.”

What invitation? What the hell is she talking about?

She handed me her business card, gathered her tarot deck back into a pile, and wrapped it in a red silk scarf.

I fished in my pocket for some money, pulled out a ten-dollar bill, set it on the table as I stood, and said, “You've frightened me.” I was surprised to hear those words come out of my mouth, because it wasn't like me to share my feelings with strangers—or with anyone, for that matter.

“Good. Being frightened will help you pay attention.”

She palmed the money, tucked it into her pocket, and closed her eyes.

I took that as a dismissal and walked back to my office, replaying her words in my mind. The logical part of me tried to take charge, reminding me that there was no solid research to back up the validity of most psychic readings. The majority of so-called readers were frauds. I had to admit that Cerridwyn sounded authentic, but most of her feedback had really only been cosmo-babble, and the strange feeling in my midsection was simple indigestion.

But the instinctual part of me ignored all that and reminded me of the story of “The Three Little Pigs,” and the one little pig who built his house with bricks. What was my unconscious trying to tell me? Was there really a big, bad wolf out there that could blow the house down?

CHAPTER 9

T
he rest of the day was pleasantly routine. I had several clients scheduled, and the task of concentrating on their concerns kept my mind off the ghoulish madness and bizarre chaos that had penetrated the edges of my life. The key to successful denial is to keep busy.

Overall, it turned out to be quite a satisfying afternoon.

Spock had a moment of illumination in the midst of waxing euphoric about the latest
Star Trek
convention he'd attended. It seemed he'd had a close encounter with a protester—I couldn't imagine what anyone would protest about at a
Star Trek
convention—out in front of the building, and it had upset him. The woman was handing out flyers and bumped into Spock, accusing him of being a “loser with no life.”

He paused in the middle of his passionate diatribe about the injustice of her accusations and said, a horrified expression on his face, “Is that true? Am I a loser with no life?”

I asked him what he thought, and we had our first authentic, meaningful dialogue about his role-playing.

All in all, a significant session.

Then Wendy, a member of my Fear of Commitment group, came for her first individual appointment to tell me that she'd read a book I'd suggested and had courageously allowed herself to go on a fourth date with a particularly intriguing man she'd been seeing. Since she usually ended every relationship after the third date—thanks to the number of times her father visited her as a child after abandoning the family—this was indeed exciting news.

Witnessing client breakthroughs reminded me why I chose this work to begin with.

Feeling good, I finished up with my last client, went home, poured a glass of wine, and crawled into an aromatic, hot bubble bath.

I sat in the tub, enjoyed the blissful sensations, played with the bubbles, and recalled my talk with Cerridwyn in the mall. How silly of me to take the tarot reader seriously. It was totally rational that the strange events of the morning had caused me to be anxious. It really wasn't so unusual that she'd picked up my fears about Emerald, because I knew my own intuitive abilities often opened me to information from others, whether I wanted it or not.

To my mind, psychic awareness fell solidly into the category of “normal brain activities,” so I wasn't in the least surprised by the wide range of abilities out there. Reading energy was a common human occurrence. Of course, I had to admit that encountering two such talented individuals—first Devereux, then Cerridwyn—in such a short time span was unusual. But Devereux's gifts might be the upside of his mental illness, and while I didn't doubt that Cerridwyn had skills, she was only a mirror—impressive, but not supernatural.

I was just thinking about how great it would be to take a nap when I heard a voice downstairs in my living room.

“Kismet? It's me, Tom. Your door was unlocked. I knocked, but nobody answered.”

My heart tripped against my ribs.

My door's unlocked? What's the matter with me? Damn. I forgot to call Tom and cancel.
Then the little psychologist in my head suggested,
Maybe you didn't want to cancel.

“I'll be down in a minute,” I yelled.

I heard footsteps tromping up the stairs, and then Tom poked his head into the bathroom, beaming a toothpaste-commercial smile.

Same old obnoxious Tom.

Surprised and highly annoyed, I sat up in the water, pulled a couple of big clumps of bubbles toward me, and raised my knees up to my chest. “Hey! I'm taking a bath here. I wasn't expecting you so early. Why don't you wait for me downstairs?”

Why am I being polite to this jerk?

He ambled over, lowered the toilet lid, sat down, and made himself comfortable. “No. I enjoy having you as a captive audience. Besides, I've seen you naked hundreds of times.”

He was right about that. From the first moment I laid eyes on him during our internship at the psychiatric hospital, I was putty in his hands. All he had to do was give me one of those dazzling smiles or glance at me with his bedroom eyes and I'd follow him anywhere. Thanks to my parents, I couldn't tell healthy attention from the opposite sex.

Okay, so I'd led a sheltered life. I was primed for the picking.

Tom had been the first man I'd had an actual relationship with. Oh sure, I'd fumbled around in the backseats of cars with various high school and college dates, and I even managed to find a willing participant to relieve me of my virginity when I determined the time was right. But until Tom, I'd been an emotional virgin.

He was eight years older than me and he taught me things about the sexual arts I never knew existed. We spent four years together and amassed quite a collection of sexual aids, books, toys, and videos. Unfortunately, while it was all about pleasure and orgasms for Tom, it was all about love for me. He'd been so disappointed that I'd muddied the waters. I didn't have the wisdom then to realize how emotionally unavailable he was.

I gathered more bubbles around me. “That's ancient history.” I gave a limp version of a sneer. Unfortunately, I realized too late that it's almost impossible to pull off an effective sneer while sitting naked in a foamy tub.

He perched there, watching me, making no effort to hide the fact his eyes were lingering on certain parts of my anatomy and he was enjoying the view. I remembered that wicked expression on his face, and I felt a tightening between my legs—as if my libido had sent out an invitation that went into the mail before my brain could retrieve it.

“Is the water getting cold?” He leered at my breasts and smirked.

I followed his gaze down and noticed my nipples were large and hard.

Shit. Apparently my body didn't get the memo about this not-lusting-after-Tom thing. Old patterns …

“I always appreciated how quickly your body got aroused,” he said. “It turned me on to watch you respond to me in such an obvious way.”

He stood, moved a step closer to the bathtub, and laid his hand on his zipper. “Look,” he said, rubbing his hand up and down the front of his pants, showing me his erection. “See what you do to me?”

Geez. It had been two years since I'd had sex, and my body was screaming
Yes
! Despite his heartless rejection and empty promises, I still wanted him. Even though he was the poster boy for superficiality, I still lusted after him. I was torn between being disgusted with myself and being overwhelmingly aroused. I started to suggest that we move into my bedroom when he uttered the immortal words, “Tell me how bad you want it.”

Yuck.

I'd been expecting a sensual seduction scene, and instead he gave me a worn-out line from one of the porn movies he collected. His words hit me like a cold shower, dousing the flames of my romantic fantasy. All my desire for him immediately evaporated in the crystal-clear realization that he'd never been who I'd imagined him to be, and I'd been fooling myself all those years. Fooling myself? Let's call a spade a spade: I'd been an idiot.

I raised my voice and gave it a cutting edge.

“Very tacky, Dr. Radcliffe. Tell me—does that approach usually work for you these days? Are more women responding to ‘Mr. Macho' than responded to ‘Mr. Sensitivity'? Hand me a towel and get out.”

With a shocked expression on his face, he reached over, picked up a towel, and handed it to me.

I stood and slowly wrapped the towel around myself, noticing he was still enjoying the show. “There's some wine downstairs. Go help yourself. Leave. Now.”

He opened and closed his mouth a couple of times, but no words emerged. The color drained from his face, and his expression veered back and forth between confusion and disbelief. He finally turned and silently retreated.

After he left, I stepped out of the tub and stood in front of the mirror. My cheeks were flushed, and my eyes shone. At least it was good to have more evidence that my body was still capable of sexual arousal. Over the last couple of years, I'd started to wonder. But it was clear that anything personal between the two of us was finished. I was actually glad Tom had shown up, because who knew how long I might have carried the torch if he hadn't reminded me of who he really was?

Love truly was blind.

“If I promise to go back to being Mr. Sensitivity, can I come up and talk to you while you put your makeup on?” Tom crooned from the foot of the stairs. “I'm getting lonesome down here.”

I rolled my eyes. He was trying to con me again, but it wasn't going to work. I had come to my senses. “Sure. You can come up, but I'm almost done. Bring the wine bottle with you.”

I might need a weapon.

He came upstairs and leaned against the door to the bathroom, lowered the bottle onto the counter by the sink, and stood there quietly, sipping his wine.

“I feel as if I should apologize, but you can't really blame a guy for trying.” He shrugged. “We've got such a long history together. You've gotten even prettier since we split up.”

“I
can
blame a guy for trying, so feel free to come up with one of your brilliant, meaningless apologies. I'm all ears.”

I'd pulled my hair up into one of those large hair clips so it wouldn't get wet in the bath, and I released it, letting the curls cascade down my back.

He reached out and picked up one of the wavy clumps. “Was your hair always this long? It's very sexy.”

“Yes,” I said, frowning. I edged away. All his idiotic behaviors were coming back to me. Now that I wasn't at the mercy of my hormones, he was simply an annoyance—not even worth getting worked up about. “It was always this long. In fact, you insisted I never cut it. Sounds like you're having some memory problems. I'd watch the recreational drug use, if I were you.”

Still playing with my hair, he ignored my dig and inspected the Band-Aid on my neck. “What's this?” He touched it with one finger.