Blood Therapy (Kismet Knight, Ph.D., Vampire Psychologist)

by Hilburn, Lynda

  “He should feel responsible. He is,” Alan said. “So he’s missing—what’s that about?”

  She stood and marched back and forth, much like her son had earlier. “I don’t know. He simply didn’t come home at dawn two days ago.”

  Alan made a disgusted sound. “He probably just took off. Greener pastures. More sheep to fleece.”

  “Stop,” Olivia said, her eyes narrowing, her body taut. “I understand that you’re hurt, and you can be as angry at me as you like, but I won’t have you disrespecting Colin. He’s been wonderful to me, and something is wrong. He’d never stay away by choice.”

  I wasn’t sure if I should interrupt, but a lot of strong emotions were about to combust between them. They’d have to cope with them all, but maybe now wasn’t the best time. “How can Alan help you, Olivia?” I asked.

  They both shifted their attention to me, the tense moment broken.

  She sat and took his hand. “I want you to find him, Alan. You’re not only an FBI agent—you’ve become a talented vampire hunter. Please help me.”

  “Find Colin? I wouldn’t know where to start.”

  Olivia stood and held out her hand to him. “I’ll tell you everything. Come with me.” She pulled Alan up off the couch into a hug, and they vanished.

  “Bye,” I said to the now-empty space, remembering my hope that coming to New York City would take me away from all the vampire madness. I laughed at the naïve notion. And of course Devereux was a participant in this East Coast brand of bloodsucking chaos as well.

  Thinking about Devereux made my stomach tighten. He wasn’t human, and it wasn’t likely I’d ever truly understand him. Who knew how many secrets he carried? But it didn’t matter since we had decided to break things off. I kept forgetting.

  Forcing myself to push him out of my consciousness, I focused on Alan again. I understood Olivia’s fear about her mate, but was it safe to thrust her son into a situation involving yet more homicidal vampires? Not even close.

  Restless, not knowing how I could help Alan, I wandered over to the window and sipped my wine while watching the lights of Manhattan. Despite my attempt to distract myself, a vision of Devereux’s face suddenly popped into my mind, and I felt overwhelmingly sad. As professionally important as the last almost-three months had been, they’d been personally disastrous. Could I step away from the vampires? As I wondered that, another question arose that took my breath away. Would the vampires let me step away now I knew of their existence?

  I anxiously pondered that horrifying question for a couple of minutes until a stomach growl brought me back to the present. I hadn’t really eaten anything substantial since morning, and, with nothing to soak it up, the wine had gone to my head. At least eating was something I was in charge of, an activity I could control.

  I shook off the fearful new possibility and focused on the reality of food. I freshened up, grabbed my briefcase, and headed out for the hotel restaurant. Maybe I could get some work done.

  The line for the dining room was long again, and I considered going out and looking for a less-busy option within walking distance or just calling room service, putting on my Freud pajamas, and staying in for the evening.

  “Kismet!” a familiar voice said.

  Michael, my seatmate from the airplane, trotted out of the restaurant, waving at me. “There you are! I didn’t see you all day—we must have attended different workshops. I’m just finishing up—please join me.”

  Amid grumbling from the people ahead of me in the line, I accom-panied Michael back to his booth, which was tucked into a dim corner. All that was left of his meal was a half-empty cocktail.

  How did he see me from way back here? I suppose there is a somewhat direct line of sight to the waiting area—if you’re leaning out of the booth, that is. …

  I joined him. “It was pretty lucky you were able to see me from way back here. Who knows how long I would’ve had to wait for a table?”

  “Okay”—he gave a charming grin—“I’ve been found out. I asked for this booth on purpose so I could watch for you. I called your room earlier and there was no answer, and for some reason the voice mail option was disabled. I enjoyed our conversation on the plane so much I hoped to have some time with you tonight. It’s rare to find another clinician who works with the type of clients I see.”

  Well, he likes guys, so we can just be friends. No drama. He still doesn’t make me nervous, so I must have him firmly in the buddy column. What’s the harm, right?

  “I enjoyed our conversation, too.”

  The waiter came and handed me a menu, then stood patiently next to the table. I ordered coffee and a big chef salad.

  “Are you sure you want to sit here while I eat? You were probably ready to leave.” Actually, I was too hungry to care if he sat with me or didn’t.

  “I’m sure. I don’t know anyone else here, so I’ll try to make my company pleasant enough that you’ll tolerate me.” He smiled and made excellent

  eye contact.

  Okay, he’s flirting with me, isn’t he? Or is this just his personality?

  “Where’s your friend—the one you were meeting here? Did he decide not to come?” he asked.

  Where is he? I wish I knew.

  My food arrived and I dug in, glad it had come quickly. “He’s here but was called away on a case.”

  “Oh—is he a local psychologist who had to have someone hospitalized or something? Or is he so well known that his talents are in demand even here?”

  How much should I say? Does it really matter?

  “He’s a psychologist, but he works as an FBI profiler.” The food had begun to relax me.

  “Wow. That sounds exciting. I hope I get to meet him while we’re here. Does he share your interest in vampire wannabes? I’ll bet he encounters all kinds of fascinating cases.”

  “He’s pretty open-minded.” Time to change the subject. “So, tell me about the workshops you attended today.”

  We spent the next hour discussing the sessions we’d attended. He was right—it was rare to encounter another psychologist with similar interests and client demographics. Talking to him was pleasant, and it wasn’t a hardship that he was easy on the eyes. I found myself laughing more than I had in days. Maybe he and I could schedule informal consultation and supervision with each other when we got back to Denver. It really would be great to have a professional friend. Hell, I could invite Ham, and we’d have a weird little mini-coven.

  “Can I admit something to you?” he said, lowering his voice.

  Uh-oh. Do I really want to hear whatever it is?

  I picked up my coffee cup and drained it. “Okay,” I said, not sounding sure at all.

  “Actually, I need some advice. Peer consultation.”

  “What kind of advice?”

  “I’m being stalked by a client.”

  “What?” I almost tipped over the water glass I’d just reached for. “Are you serious?”

  “Deadly.”

  “All right, Doctor Parker.” I relaxed back into the soft booth cushions. “I’m all ears.”

  He sighed and played with an unused spoon. “A few weeks before I went on sabbatical at the meditation center, one of my clients finally became overt in his attempt to convince me to have sex with him.”

  “Is it safe to assume that kind of behavior is part of his diagnosis?”

  “Yes. I see many GLBT clients, some of whom aren’t comfortable with themselves or their orientations, so it’s not unusual for them to act out their concerns and insecurities in session. That’s normal.”

  “It’s normal for all clients.”

  “You’re right. But this particular client was different. He exhibited the most extreme sex addiction I’d ever worked with. From the moment he walked into my office, I became his object of fixation.”

  “That doesn’t sound good. What happened?”

  “He physically assaulted me, and afterward he begged me for forgiveness. He swore he’d stay away from me an
d seek treatment elsewhere if I didn’t file a police report. I agreed. Looking back now, I can see he was more disturbed than I thought, and I was wrong not to go to the authorities. A couple of weeks later, he filed a grievance against me, saying I’d abused him. My license is currently in review.”

  “No way!” I sat up straighter. “That’s terrible, Michael. I’m so sorry. Did he hurt you?”

  “Not physically. I was able to fight him off and force him out of my office. But the fact that I missed the severity of his illness makes me doubt myself. That’s really why I went to the center—I didn’t have the confidence to continue with my private practice. My partner broke up with me because of the stress.”

  “Oh, Michael, I don’t know what to say. Is there anything I can do to help?”

  He smiled, a glimmer of the familiar charm peeking through. “Just listening is great. I haven’t told anyone—it’s a relief even to say the words to someone.”

  “Do you think you’ll lose your license? Can you prove your innocence? Once there’s a legal proceeding involving the two of you, confidentiality is no longer a concern.”

  “I’m confident I’ll keep my license. Turns out I’m not the first therapist he filed a grievance against, nor the first he assaulted. But the experience has been traumatic and overwhelming. I decided this was a good time to work on the book I’d had on the back burner for years. I’m not sure I want to work in private practice anymore.”

  “I can’t blame you for that. What a horrible experience. Nobody recovers quickly from that sort of ordeal.” I wished I could tell him about the time bloodsucking Bryce came to my office and bit me, intending to drain me dry. Or when Lucifer kidnapped me from outside the Crypt. Or about finding a dead body in my office. He’d never believe me, which was understandable, because all those situations had been totally unbelievable. My heart went out to him, but without bringing up vampires, there wasn’t much I could say.

  “Okay.” He ran his fingers through his hair as he gave a bright smile. “That’s enough depressing talk. I didn’t mean to turn our dinner into a therapy session.”

  I patted his hand. “You didn’t. I’m glad you told me—thank you for trusting me.”

  We sat silently for a couple of minutes.

  “This has been so nice, I hate for the evening to end,” he said.

  “Me, too.” I folded my napkin, then rifled through my briefcase looking for my wallet. He probably felt exhausted from talking about the incident again.

  When I set my credit card on the table, he picked it up and handed it back to me. “No. I insist on buying your dinner, modest as it was. Please, put your card away.”

  “That isn’t necessary, Michael. Really. I can write it off as a business expense.”

  “Regardless. I still want to treat you—please let me.” He gave me his adorable puppy-dog look.

  I laughed. “Okay. I wouldn’t think of depriving you of the opportunity to spend your money.”

  “Good. Do we really have to go our separate ways now? Are you tired? Maybe we could find a nightclub or something. Go dancing.”

  “Nightclub? Hmm. I haven’t been dancing in, well, I don’t remember the last time. Do you think there’s something in walking distance? I’d really like to get out and stretch my legs.”

  “Let me ask at the front desk. I’ll bet there’s something. I don’t want you to think I’m a coward, but is it really safe for us to be walking the streets of New York City at night? I’ve heard stories. I’m afraid all my talents are in my head rather than my fists. I don’t know if I could adequately defend you. Maybe I should ask about the safety issue, too.”

  Yikes. He’s really afraid. Who would’ve guessed? His negative experiences obviously drained his confidence. I hope I don’t have to protect him. I’m too tired for that. But is this really a good idea? With Lucifer darting through time and space, I’m never safe. Michael is both a friend and a therapist. Would Lucifer go after him? Should I tell him about the therapists being murdered in San Francisco, even though the cops haven’t released the information yet?

  “Okay.” Deciding to throw caution to the wind, I slid out of the booth and held up my briefcase. “I need to go up to my room, drop this off, and grab my coat. I’ll meet you in the lobby in ten minutes.”

  “It’s a date.”

  The elevator was full, and the ride up was glacial and uncomfortable, someone entering or leaving at practically every floor. At one stop, a man in a World War II army uniform walked in through an exiting couple and stood half-in, half-out of a portly businessman who gave no indication he was even remotely aware of his new appendage.

  I sighed. It was going to be a long conference. Of course this had to be a haunted hotel.

  Happily, Ingrid Bergman hadn’t followed me to my new room and—for the moment—I was the only inhabitant.

  After I refreshed my makeup, used a hair pick on my curls, and changed into the flat-heeled black leather boots I’d worn on the plane—not great for cold weather but hopefully we wouldn’t be outdoors long—I grabbed my coat, shoved a red wool hat and gloves into one pocket, filled my jeans pockets with money, cell phone, and the room keycard, then wrapped a multicolored scarf around my neck.

  I was ready to play. Gee, having fun—what a foreign concept.

  Michael walked toward the elevator as the doors opened, and I spontaneously laughed. He’d dressed himself like Nanook of the North. He had on so many layers, I was surprised he could even move.

  “What’s so funny?” he asked, pretending to be offended. “I just don’t like to be cold. Come on.” He linked his arm through mine, once again behaving like his charming self. “The woman at the desk said there’s a great nightclub just a block down, and aside from the odd pickpocket, she thinks we should be safe enough.”

  Looks like he’s rediscovered his courage. Let’s hope there’s no reason to challenge it.

  We strolled down the street, our breath clouding in the frigid air as we joked and made comments about the contents of the retail windows. It had to be near zero degrees.

  Heavy bass reverberated through the walls as we approached a building sporting a neon “Retro Dance Club” sign.

  “This must be the place,” Michael said.

  I listened for a few seconds. “Sounds like the Rolling Stones—‘Miss You.’ This should be fun.”

  “How do you know that tune? It’s older than you are.”

  “I’d know that distinctive bass line anywhere. My parents had an extensive record collection—the vinyl kind. I grew up listening to music from the sixties and seventies.” I laughed. “I have a photo of my geeky scientist parents taken at a disco. If I ever need to blackmail them, that’s the one I’ll use.”

  A blast of heat almost pushed us back outside again as we entered the huge nightclub. The room was packed with bodies, dancers boogying wherever they could find a spot.

  We peeled off our winter gear at the cloakroom and checked it in. Then we wove through the mayhem and found an empty table in the undesirable corner near the door to the kitchen, which also happened to be underneath one of the enormous wall-mounted speakers.

  The DJ, a tall African American guy with a retro afro that stood out a good twelve inches from his head, grooved on a raised stage, boxed into his electronic universe by sound equipment of all kinds. Every few seconds he flicked some switches and colored lights flashed on and off, illuminating a glittering oversized disco ball hanging from the center of the ceiling.

  “Wow,” Michael yelled as we settled into our chairs, “we’ve entered some kind of time warp.”

  The music was too loud for conversation, so I just nodded.

  A waitress appeared to take our drink orders, and I leaned back against the wall, watching the waitstaff pass our table carrying trays of bar food from the kitchen. The smell of grease oozed out every time the door opened. My clothes and hair were going to smell like a Dumpster by the end of the night. At least there was no smoking allowed in the club. />
  “Hey!” Michael waved his hand in front of my face and pointed to the dancers. “Wanna dance?”

  We squished into the pulsing mob as the DJ segued seamlessly from the Stones to “Stayin’ Alive” by the Bee Gees, which I viewed as a cosmic message especially for me, then into other disco hits. Michael and I danced through them all, sweat dripping down our faces, detouring over to our table every so often to chug down the wine we’d ordered. During the last song, Michael had started bumping my hip with his in some form of dance movement I wasn’t familiar with. Each time he bumped, he laughed, which proved to be contagious. It was such a relief to relax and be silly for a little while.

  After a couple of hours, despite the perspiration and the exercise, the wine had done its job—I was officially buzzed. I knew alcohol wasn’t a good way to quench thirst or stave off dehydration, but it had been so long—maybe years—since I’d last cut loose and tied one on. After all the paranormal madness of the past few months, didn’t I deserve some downtime? I was so tired of thinking about vampires. Weary of being so responsible. Maybe if I drank enough, I’d blot the undead totally out of my mind.

  I tugged Michael’s arm, pulling him back to the table, then pointed to the restrooms. He mouthed “okay,” and sat.

  I’d just turned to head toward the women’s bathroom when I saw Lucifer across the room. I stopped dead, held my breath, and pressed my hand to my mouth to stifle the scream that threatened to erupt. I flicked my gaze back over my shoulder to check if Michael had noticed my reaction, but he hadn’t. And when I looked again, Lucifer was gone.

  Shuffling around the edges of the crowd, I scanned for the bald head, but didn’t find it. Had I really seen him? Or had the stress, and alcohol, and my altered mind made me hallucinate? Was I so afraid of him that I’d imagined him coming after me? It would be horrible if all the brain trauma I’d experienced around the vampires caused me to exhibit signs of schizophrenia. One consolation: if I developed a severe mental illness, I wouldn’t have to worry about anybody else’s energy warping my mind.