The Vampire Shrink (23 page)

I looked up from the crystal ball I'd been gazing into. “A nightwalker?”

“A vampire, the undead, an immortal.”

I took a breath, preparing to ask more questions, but he held up a hand to stop me. “Please. Let me finish.”

I nodded and picked up a crystal-encrusted wand.

“Since my human birth, I was schooled in the art and craft of magic. Generations of my family had apprenticed themselves to the witches and wizards who came before, and the skills and abilities of each ancestor were passed along the bloodline. By the time the gifts came down to me, they were extremely potent.”

He clasped his hands behind his back and paced to and fro, as if he were delivering a speech.

Why do I find his mannerisms so charming? If Tom did the same thing, I'd be irritated.

I followed him with my eyes. “It sounds like you had an unusual childhood,” I said.

“Yes, in some ways. And in others it was perfectly normal. I was very fortunate. I had parents who loved me and who raised me in a beautiful place. In addition to my talents in the realm of the magical arts, I also inherited artistic abilities, which revealed themselves very early. It was not long before my ability to see the future blended with my love of painting to give me a very powerful tool for expressing the prophecies and visions I sensed in my deepest mind. I became a seer.”

“A seer? Do you mean a psychic?”

He gave a quick nod. “I suppose the word ‘seer' is old-fashioned and people today would call themselves psychic, or perhaps clairvoyant. My gift was only visual at first. I could enter into altered states and view the probable future. Now I have access to all the channels: visual, auditory, olfactory, and others.”

“Wow,” I said. “What's it like to be able to do that?” If he really could do all those things—and I was still a long way from believing he could—he had to be the most powerful psychic I'd ever heard of.

Sadness shadowed his features. “Not as wonderful as you might imagine. The longer I have existed, the harder it has become to be aware of what is coming, to accept the poor choices made by most of humanity. My journey has been challenging. Lonely. Unfortunately, I cannot always see what is ahead for me—my vision dims when I focus it on myself. Had I known the true reality of becoming immortal in the beginning, I might not have made the same decisions.”

He suddenly looked like the lost, wounded child I had assumed he was when Midnight first mentioned him. My heart ached for the pain he had experienced. The loneliness. Obviously he'd had some trauma or crisis that precipitated his paranormal role-playing. I had just taken a step toward him to comfort him when he strode over to a large wooden cabinet and opened the wide double doors. Inside were scores of painted canvases, lined up next to one another like dominoes. He reached in and selected one particular canvas and drew it out of the cabinet, holding it carefully along the edge.

He carried the painting back to me, turned it around for me to see, and held it up with both hands.

I gasped, staring. It was a portrait of me.

“Devereux! That's so beautiful. When did you have time to paint this? How could you have memorized my face so perfectly in the short time I've known you?”

I stood, speechless, taking in the details of the portrait. As I examined the exquisite artwork, something began to tug at my consciousness. There was something odd about this painting. I couldn't quite put my finger on what it was, until it rolled over me like a wave.

“My necklace.” Suddenly I felt tense. “You've never seen this necklace. In fact, this is the first time I've ever worn it, yet it's in the portrait. How can that be? And my blue blouse. How could you have painted me as I look tonight?”

But he did say he's psychic.

He propped the canvas on an easel. “When I created this portrait, I did not know the woman in the picture or why I was compelled to adorn her with that particular piece of jewelry. As always when I am in the midst of a prophetic vision, I simply painted what I saw. Unlike the other visions that had been born on my canvases, this one would not release me after the image was complete. The woman in the portrait haunted me. She filled my dreams until I was sure I would go mad. She spoke to me in my mind and repeated one word, over and over again.”

“What word?”

He pointed to some writing at the bottom of the painting, and I leaned in to read that single word.

Kismet.

“I thought the word meant the woman in the painting was my fate, my destiny. I waited patiently for her to find me, and after a time I locked the painting away. Until now.”

He closed the distance between us and grasped my upper arms. “It was not a word at all. It was your name.”

I shook my head, searching the depths of his eyes for some clue to what he was talking about.

“I don't understand. Are you saying you didn't paint this recently?”

“Yes. Far from it.”

“When, then? When did you paint it?”

“More than eight hundred years ago.”

CHAPTER 12

I
t was official. Like Elvis, my brain had definitely left the building.

At some point during the last few hours I'd apparently fallen through the looking glass. I didn't have a map of Wonderland, and nothing in my previous experience or education had prepared me to deal with the strange parallel universe I'd landed in.

Had someone slipped LSD into my Bloody Mary?

There I was, in the nether regions of Dracula's castle, staring at a gorgeous self-proclaimed immortal who insisted he'd painted my portrait eight hundred years ago, and I couldn't find the instruction manual to put the pieces together. I couldn't even find the box the damn thing came in.

Devereux seemed to have that effect on me. One minute I was ready to rip my clothes off, leap into his arms, and lose myself in a frenzy of body parts. The next minute I was rocketing between shocked horror, mind-numbing confusion, and righteous anger. My brain just wasn't equipped for that kind of neurochemical roller-coaster ride.

Then all hell broke loose.

I heard loud, angry voices out in the corridor and frantic pounding on the outer door to Devereux's office. Evidently the villagers with burning torches had arrived.

“Master! Master! Come quickly. They're back, and they've got Luna.”

Devereux grabbed the painting from the easel, shoved it at me, and ordered, “Stay here.” He moved so quickly through the opening in the wall of books that my eyes registered only a blur.

He must have opened the outer door, because a cacophony of chaotic, fearful voices filled the air before the door clicked shut again, leaving me in eerie silence.

Stay here? I seriously don't think so.

I slanted another glance at the portrait, then returned it to the cabinet. No matter when it had been painted, it was clearly high quality. Devereux was a talented artist. What was it with me? Why did I have to fall for brilliant men who were either egomaniacs, crazy, or both?

I hurried out of his secret room and crossed the main office area, heading for the door to the hallway. The closer I drew, the louder the sounds became. I put my fingers on the handle and gently pushed down, silently easing the door inward until I could poke my head out and view the area directly in front of the entrance. I half expected to find a guard standing there, another of Devereux's motorcycle gang thralls, who would keep me in my luxurious holding cell. However, this end of the hallway was empty.

Judging by the noise level, all the action was happening farther up the corridor, in the area behind the velvet curtains. The sounds of crashing furniture, blood-curdling screams, Darth Vader–like rumblings, and screechings that had to be a demonic choir rehearsing the Satanic Mass for the Dead assailed my ears. Something unpleasantly red was oozing along the floor in front of that entryway.

The only way out of the basement was to pass the crazed circus carrying on behind curtain number one.

I tiptoed along the hallway and stood with my back pressed against the wall next to the entrance to the insane asylum. I peeked in long enough to see that all the people—if “people” was the right word—crammed into the room were locked in combat with willing and enthusiastic partners. Devereux's assistant Luna had a huge hairy man wrestled down, her teeth shredding chunks from his neck as her victim screamed. A tall African American male stepped near the doorway and turned his gaze in my direction. He opened his mouth, displaying long, bloody fangs, then reached into the chest of the man nearest to him and ripped his heart out.

Bile rose in my throat, and my head spun.

The last thing I saw before I sprinted toward the stairs leading back up to the main floor was Devereux and Bryce, blood covered, fangs bared, hair flying, levitating a few feet above the ground and clutching each other's necks.

That was it for me.

Holy shit! They really are vampires!

The volume of noise swallowed my unintended scream, and I bolted from the totally unbelievable toward the merely improbable.

I ran up the stairs like I was being chased by the Hounds of Hell, pushed through the door where John the biker, the vampire addict, had abandoned his post, and smashed into Alan's chest. I screamed, instinctively tried to push away. He grabbed my upper arms and held me against him. I was shaking so hard my earrings rattled.

“Kismet! I've been searching all over for you. What the hell's going on here? What's all that noise down there? What happened to you?”

“They're fighting. It's a bloody mess.”

“Who's fighting? I'd better get down there—” He started to pull away.

“No.” I grabbed his arms. “Wait. Trust me—you don't want to go down there. I can't believe I'm saying this, but this place really is filled with vampires, and I can say for sure that everybody is certifiably crazy. From what I just saw, you wouldn't last five minutes. Please, I want to find Tom and go home.”

“Okay, you find him. I'll call the locals.”

“No! Devereux wouldn't want you to bring the police into this. Let's just go.”

Alan tipped his head to the side and cocked a brow. “Devereux wouldn't, would he? And how would you know that?”

“I'll tell you all about it—all of it—but right now, let's get out of here.”

His eyes bored into mine for a long moment, and then he nodded. Either I was sufficiently crazed-looking that he'd decided to humor me, or he'd read deeper between the lines and got that my terror was authentic. I could at least admit to myself that I'd never dealt well with violent psychotics, and everything about the scene in the basement triggered my worst nightmares.

He took both my hands in his and stared into my eyes.

“Okay. Just breathe. We'll find Tom. You go check out the dance floor, and I'll see if he's ogling the bartender again. Let's meet outside in five minutes.”

I sighed in relief, pulled my hands free, and started off toward the crowded dance floor. After a few steps, I turned back to yell at Alan to hurry and saw him leap through the doorway to the basement. I should've known he'd have to be a one-man cavalry; an FBI agent, first and foremost. I filed away for future use the fact that he'd stared right into my eyes and lied to me.

Now more pissed than frightened, I stomped off in search of Tom. Alan could flail around in the madness if he wanted to, but I was going to find my narcissistic ex-boyfriend, catch a cab, and get the hell out of there. The farther removed I got from everything that had happened downstairs, the more the idea of drugs in my drink seemed plausible.

I wandered around the club for several minutes, even going so far as to stand in front of the men's room, sneaking peeks inside whenever the door opened. That got me a lot of unwanted attention, suggestive comments, and lascivious invitations. What it didn't get me was a glimpse of Tom.

Come to think of it, I hadn't seen Zoë either.

One good thing about being tall to begin with and wearing high heels was the elevated altitude. From my lofty vantage point, I was able to scan over the heads of half the blissed-out partiers and save myself from unnecessary body jostling.

If Tom was in the club, he had to be under a table somewhere, because there was no sign of him standing or sitting anywhere. Alan hadn't emerged from the supernatural testosterone-fest below, so I was on my own. That was fine. I was used to being on my own.

It suddenly occurred to me that Tom might have gone outside, so I strode purposefully toward the front door and noticed that the cadaverous bouncer was missing in action. I pushed through the heavy door leading out into the fresh night air and stood for a moment, coughing, as my lungs made it clear that I wouldn't be getting off so easily after spending an evening breathing in the chemical spewing of a fog machine.

I hadn't worn a watch, but I figured it had to be close to last call. Tom wasn't outside either, but he'd have to come out of the club eventually, so I decided to wait. Then it struck me that he'd probably left without me. There I was, waiting for him to make sure he got home safely, and he'd just gone on his merry way without giving me a thought. That would be typical Tom—not to mention typical of how I'd let him walk all over me. How could a supposedly bright woman be so dense at the same time?

Groups of people stood in front of the club in various states of inebriation, drug intoxication, and passionate embrace, so I strolled farther down the block. I rested against the building and sank back into the shadows while I took full breaths to clear out my lungs and appreciated the silence.

I mentally reviewed what I'd seen in the basement. Nothing fit with any of my therapeutic experience. In all my reading and research, I'd never run across anything that included fangs, levitation, informal heart surgery, and the kind of unearthly noises emanating from that room.