Kismet Knight, Vampire Psychologist 3 - Dark Harvest (2 page)

Carson stood and walked behind my chair, clamping his sausage-sized fingers on my shoulders, massaging roughly. The engineer on the other side of the glass in front of us shook his head frantically, gesturing at Carson to return to his seat. Carson’s hands inched away from my shoulders, heading down toward my breasts. I bolted from the chair, grabbing my microphone as I slipped out of his reach.

Speaking of evil energy. What was up with this fool? I hadn’t heard any feedback about him from anyone that would’ve led me to believe he was such a degenerate. Was he on drugs? He’d be a midnight vampire snack, if he didn’t chill pretty soon. There was more than one benefit to hanging out with the undead.

I leaned against the glass separating the on-air room from the hallway, where spectators were lined up, laughing and pointing at Carson’s supposedly clever antics. I tried to focus on answering Nancy’s questions, while making sure I stayed out of Carson’s vicinity.

He danced around the studio while I spoke, lifting the front of his T-shirt, pointing to his protruding, hairy stomach. His audience made its pleasure known. I tried not to lose my breakfast and kept my voice steady.

“Those are great questions, Nancy. Yes. I do offer both groups and educational classes. Have them call my office. I have noticed an increase in people of all ages joining these cults. It doesn’t make sense, because there’s been so much negative publicity about the dark underside of the vampire lifestyle. But there does seem to be an escalating interest. I’ve also heard the talk about Denver being one of the places where evil is growing. A police friend told me recently that all forms of violent crimes are up here.

People seem to be losing control of themselves. I admit I don’t understand what could be causing the changes.”

Well, at least not anything I can talk about.

Carson leaped back into his chair, drew his microphone close, and affected a whining, high-pitched voice, “Oh, my goodness gracious. There’s evil in Denver. Somebody save me! That’s enough with the social worker.” He punched the next blinking button. “You’re on the air, and I insist you be more interesting than the last caller.”

There were a few seconds of silence, during which the hairs on the back of my neck rose and goose bumps swarmed over my arms. Although
silence
doesn’t begin to cover it. It was more like the air had been sucked out of the room. Or a black hole had opened up—cold, bottomless, and terrifying. Even Carson seemed temporarily entranced. Then a deep, sonorous male voice spoke.

“Dr. Knight. I have looked forward to meeting you.”

My solar plexus tingled as it always did when a vampire was near.

Whoa. What’s going on here? This guy has the vampire voice, for sure. And his vibe is definitely
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bloodsucker. But it’s daylight, so he can’t really be a vampire. I shouldn’t be able to feel a vampire over the telephone, right? I don’t trust myself anymore to make judgments about who’s a vampire and who isn’t. Brother Luther slipped right under my radar and that almost got me killed.

Carson, who’d snapped out of his mini-trance, wheezed into the microphone, “Hey, Doc. I think we got us a live one here! Or a dead one! I’m a riot—I really crack myself up. I’ll bet this guy’s a vampire. He sounds like a vampire. So, Mister Vampire. What’s your name and what’s it like being a creature of the night?” He sat back in his chair, smiling, waiting for the next straight line to be supplied for his comedy routine.

The caller whispered, “Silence, tedious human.”

Carson slumped in his chair, his chin landing on his fleshy chest, his eyes snapping shut.

I stared wide-eyed at Carson, having seen this kind of hypnosis-like state before. Always from vampires. Real ones.

“Dr. Knight?” the deep voice purred.

I gasped involuntarily. His voice was distractingly arousing. It caressed my skin like warm fingers, reminding me of intimate encounters of the gorgeous undead variety. What the hell was going on?

I cleared my throat. “Yes. I’m here. There does seem to be something … unique … about you.

Something …”

“Vampiric?” he whispered, the resonance of the word vibrating like a hand stroking my body.

Yikes.I think I moaned.
Pull yourself together, Kismet. You’ve been through this before. Now’s not
the time to reexplore the “V” spot. Take a deep breath and cross your legs. Tight.

He gave a devilish chuckle.

“You’re a vampire?” I blurted a bit too loudly.

“I am, indeed.”

And hopefully, all the listeners will assume he’s a wannabe or a nutter.

“How can you be a vampire and be awake during the day?”

“I am very old. Older than anything you can understand. I no longer have any limitations on my abilities.

As long as my body is sheltered from the direct rays of the sun, it is pleasant to move about. Although, I much prefer the night. And, each vampire has his or her own special skills. You have only had a small taste of mine.”

When he said “taste,” I felt something tongue-like move between my legs and I pressed my thighs even tighter together.

I glanced over at Carson to make sure he wasn’t witnessing my discomfort, but he was still out cold, drooling down the front of his shirt. His studio audience seemed entranced, too.

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This can’t be good. The entire radio audience is listening to me talk to a real vampire. Is this some kind of setup? I’ve never felt a vampire this powerful before. Maybe not even Devereux.

Apparently reading my thoughts, the caller said, “They will not remember a thing, Dr. Knight. Do not trouble yourself about the humans. They are in a light trance. We can chat freely.”

I suddenly imagined hundreds of cars swerving off roads all over the Denver metro area, as listeners dozed at the wheel.

He laughed, the sound tightening my stomach. I wasn’t sure if the feeling was pleasure or pain. Maybe it was both.

“Ah, yes. One might expect a psychologist to be the compassionate type. But never fear. The populace is safe from me. At least for the moment. They are merely hypnotized. It is quite simple to insert a mental suggestion into the radio waves. For a vampire, creating an altered state is not dependent upon proximity.

Your mortals believe they’re listening to a pleasant tune while we speak and will resurface remembering a relaxing daydream. No harm will come to them. Until it suits me, anyway.”

“What do you want?” I finally managed to mumble. The sound of his voice made my head fuzzy.

“Just to introduce myself. I am a unique soul, even in the vampire world. Lyren Hallow, Vampire Hunter Extraordinaire, at your service. You may call me Hallow.”

His disclosure momentarily threw me and I sputtered, “What? A vampire hunter? But you’re a vampire.

How can you be a vampire hunter? Aren’t there rules about that?”

“A fiend has to make a living, yes?” He laughed, the sound caressing my pleasure centers. “Even ancient vampires are not immune to the delightful siren song of money. Surprisingly superficial, I admit, but the acquisition of gold has always been an intriguing game. And in my own defense, I challenge you to keep uncovering reasons to crawl out of the tomb every night after thousands of years. Existence can be such a chore. But hunting down and killing my own kind, now there is something a nightwalker can sink his fangs into.”

He laughed again, as if he found himself highly amusing.

I cleared my throat, stalling for time. Ever since I stumbled into Denver’s hidden vampire community, I’d been struggling to regain my balance—to find some sanity to cling to in the midst of one absurd revelation after another.

“Why are you telling me all this?”

“I have been hired to harvest someone you know. I thought it only sporting to tip my hand ever so slightly—just to keep things interesting. And, of course, you are becoming very well known in the bloodsucker community. I simply could not resist strolling through your brain, if even from a distance. I expect you will make the quest much more tantalizing for me. The link between us is open now, so it will be much easier for us to communicate in the future. But, alas, I must leave you. Duty calls. Oh, and by the way. You might notice some changes in your behavior. Fewer inhibitions. Nothing to worry about.

Until we meet again, lovely Doctor Knight.”

There was a click and the line went dead. So to speak.

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Changes in my behavior? What the hell does he mean by “harvest”? Does he mean he’s going to kill someone? Someone I know? Or, rather, some vampire I know? This must be a sick joke.

I hadn’t noticed that the engineer on the other side of the glass partition in the studio had been staring off into space, until he suddenly jerked back to awareness. So did Carson, who managed to startle himself out of his chair, which rolled away from him and struck the wall with a crash. His flabby hindquarters hit the floor with a dull thud.

He wiped the pooling saliva from his chins and stood, looking around, a stranger in a strange land.

“What the hell just happened?” he bellowed, scratching his bulging belly.

The engineer knocked on the glass, then pointed to the clock to show Carson that he needed to announce the station identification and the time, because several minutes had passed and our interview was over.

Carson grabbed his microphone and slipped back into his boorish on-air personality. He gave the required information, and glared at me. “I’d like to thank our guest, the boob-dacious Dr. Kismet Knight, for being on the show today. Aliens must have abducted me because I sure as hell don’t know where the time went. But stay tuned. I’ll be right back after these words from our moneymakers.”

He clicked off his mic and turned suspicious eyes to me.

“I don’t remember shit, and I don’t know what you did, but I know you did something. I feel it in my bones. There was that weird phone call and then—nothing. Maybe you slipped something into my coffee.

This isn’t over, Kismet, baby. You’ll be hearing from me again. I have a feeling there’s a story here, and I intend to be the one to exploit it as only I can.” He made a sucking-in-air noise with his mouth that reminded me of the Hannibal Lecter character in
The Silence of the Lambs.

I grabbed my briefcase and gave myself clear evidence of how many steps it took to get out the studio door.

It was tempting to tell Carson what kind of nasty coffin of worms he was opening, but I decided not to.

He’d been the worst kind of abusive idiot to me during our interview, and I wasn’t in the mood to go out of my way to save his neck—literally.

Besides, if he wanted to step into a rerun of
The Twilight Zone,
who was I to interfere?

I hustled down the carpeted hallway toward the lobby fast enough to generate static cling in the bottom of my dress. The material sealed itself around my knees and I stopped, resting a hand against the wall next to the reception desk, watching tiny electrical sparks dance around the fabric as I tugged it away from my legs.

Carson’s voice slithered out of the invisible speakers built into the ceiling of the radio station, announcing his next guest. It was the former Miss Denver, who’d been disqualified when her breast enhancement surgery had been discovered. As if everyone and her sister wasn’t lining up for augmentation these days.

Thanks to my mother’s contribution to my DNA, I wouldn’t be joining the throngs anytime soon.

But the poor beauty queen. I wondered if she was as clueless as I’d been about Carson’s agenda, or if she expected to be humiliated.

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I must have mumbled something out loud while I was bent over, working at the hem of my dress, because a voice answered me.

“Carson Miller is an oozing wart on the ass of humanity. No, wait. He’s what gets sucked out of porta-potties after sports events. No, wait. He’s what you squish out of a pimple.”

Surprised, I jerked my head up to discover the source of the accurate descriptions and found a hand reaching out in my direction.

My gaze traveled up—way up—to settle on the face of the tall woman standing in front of me, smiling.

Instinctively, I grasped the offered hand, and matched her smile.

She had to be well over six feet tall, because I’m just four inches shy of that in my bare feet, and today I was wearing three-inch heels. She still seemed to tower over me. Even in her comfortable-looking athletic shoes.

But it was her hair, even more than her stature, that caught the eye. An amazing waterfall of silky, white hair that fell almost to the backs of her knees.

My dark brown hair is very long and curly, but compared to hers, I’ve got a crew cut.

I stared rudely at the arctic avalanche of snow flowing down her body, trying to figure out what sort of genetic glitch could have given someone so obviously young, such pure white hair. After a few seconds, my good manners reappeared and I offered a nod of apology.

She laughed, a warm tinkling sound, and released my hand. “Yeah, don’t worry about it. Everybody has that reaction. I’m the Snow Queen, otherwise known as Maxie Westhaven—the Maxie part being short for Maxwell. My parents definitely wanted a boy.” She laughed again, and spun around in a circle. “Ya think they were a little disappointed?”

I added my laughter to hers, nodding as she proved she had a healthy sense of humor about her Victoria’s Secret model-type body. Even though she tried to camouflage her curvy shape, it wasn’t something you could hide under a Denver Broncos T-shirt and baggy jeans. “It’s nice to meet you. I’m Kismet—”

“Yeah. I know who you are. I saw your picture in the paper a few months back when you were embroiled in all that vampire stuff. I even tried to interview you then. I just heard you on the radio. Oh, by the way, I’m a reporter for
National Skeptic
magazine. Have you heard of us?”

My smile dissolved.

Unfortunately, I
had
heard of the rag. Along with anybody else who ever went to a grocery store or a Laundromat. It was impossible to miss the latest copy, which featured an absurdly fake photograph of a two-headed alien on the cover and an article about the merits of treating depression by exorcism, rather than seeing a psychotherapist.

The magazine was schizophrenic. The articles spent as much time publicizing ludicrous “cures” and practitioners, as they did debunking the so-called fakes, charlatans, and New Age gurus they supposedly
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exposed.

Disappointed, because I’d immediately liked her, I wrapped my professional aura around me again, and reminded myself that I had to be very careful with the media. I didn’t want to do anything to put my vampire—or vampire wannabe—clients in danger. Not to mention a certain master vampire who scrambled my brain waves and jump-started my libido every time he materialized into my room.

I fired up my formal therapist’s voice and answered her question, “I have, yes.”

Maxie apparently noticed my attitude change and distancing maneuver. “Hmmm. I can see that my occupation doesn’t fill your heart with joy. Well, let me ease your mind. I didn’t approach you for an interview. I just wanted to meet you. You seem interesting. We actually might be kindred spirits, because I’m sure you spend a lot of your time convincing confused people that they don’t want to pretend to be vampires, and I spend a lot of mine debunking the ones you can’t talk out of it.

“See?” She shrugged and flipped a thick handful of the long, white hair over her shoulder. “We’re on the same side, here. And I’ll bet you thought my description of Cretin—I mean, Carson—was on the money.”

I smiled before I could censor myself. I didn’t believe for a minute that she hadn’t come over to interview me. My intuition was doing jumping jacks to get my attention—making sure I’d gotten on the clue bus and noted the obvious fact that the snow-haired reporter was lying. I knew she definitely wanted something, and now I was curious. If she really was just prowling for a story lead, I could hold my own.

I’d become expert at zigging when the media wanted me to zag. But I wasn’t picking up any blatantly negative energy from her—in fact, she gave off quite a lighthearted, playful vibe. Surely, it wouldn’t hurt anything to let down my guard a little. Probably. Maybe. After all, I had been trying to make more human friends lately to balance the alternative. I’d never make any connections if I always suspected the motives of everybody who came near me. There’s a fine line between being careful and being paranoid—a line I frequently tripped over.

“You’re right. It was on the money, if understated.” I chuckled, and met her eyes, which surprised me by being the same, sky-blue color as mine. I’d gotten so distracted by her amazing hair that I hadn’t even noticed the perfect features of her face. The pandemonium with Carson must have thrown me off my game more than I realized.

Gee, Kismet. You’re losing it. Aren’t psychologists supposed to be observant? Wouldn’t you say that’s a handy skill for a therapist to have?

She smiled wide, exposing perfect porcelain. “Can I buy you a coffee?”

I raised an eyebrow and cocked my head. “And you were saying
what
about not wanting to interview me?”

She held one hand up, as if she were preparing to be sworn in for testimony in a court hearing. “I swear on a stack of
Dracula
novels that our conversation over coffee will be off the record. What do you say?

We’re on the seventeenth floor now, and my office is down on the tenth, and there’s a Starbucks on the twelfth. Is Starbucks neutral enough territory?” She pointed to the elevator and plastered an obvious innocent look on her face.

I laughed, actually happy at the thought of having a few moments of chitchat with another woman around my own age—and species. No matter what her ulterior motive might be. It was fascinating spending so
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much time with the undead, but I always felt like an outsider—an
other.
Not that I needed any help feeling that way to begin with.

There were a couple of empty hours before my first client session of the day, so what the hell?

I grabbed my coat off the hanging pegs along the wall next to the elevator, and we rode down to the twelfth floor-all the time treated to Carson’s sleazy, frantic voice squealing through the speakers, going on about “mondo tits.” Comparatively speaking, I guess I’d gotten off easy.

* * *

She closed her eyes and smiled, obviously in the midst of a religious experience.

I laughed and took a sip from my mug. Another coffee junkie. At least we had that in common.

As I waited for her to complete her euphoric java worship and open her eyes, I scanned the people in the room, noticing that Maxie attracted a lot of attention. That wasn’t too surprising when you factored in the outrageous hair, the model’s face and body, and some indefinable energy that seemed to radiate from her. And, even though I’d gotten used to generating a little attention in a room myself lately—consorting with vampires tends to bring out a woman’s wilder side—it was actually pleasant to be out of the spotlight.

“So. You want to know about the hair, right?” Maxie blurted, distracting me from my people-watching.

Suddenly, distant laughter echoed in my mind, and I caught a quick movement out of the corner of my eye. When I swiveled my head to investigate, nothing was there. Goose bumps ran a marathon up my arms. I stared into my coffee, wondering if the special blend of the day contained an extra ingredient, or if I was simply having an anxiety attack. After my experiences earlier in the year, I no longer took anything for granted. Not even my sanity. Or, maybe especially not my sanity.

I scanned the room and reminded myself I was in the “normal” world—sitting in a coffee shop. No paranormal creatures waiting to jump out at me. Nothing lurking in the shadows. Just regular nine-to-five types, dressed for corporate success, indulging in a bit of overpriced caffeine. Yeah. But what about the vampire who’d called the radio show? He’d really
felt
like a vampire. And a powerful one, at that.

Thinking it was possible for one of them to walk around during the day blew all my carefully constructed denials out of the water. Acknowledging they exist in the first place had been mind numbing enough, without the terrifying realization that safety was a bigger illusion than I already assumed. Part of me longed for the innocent days before I fell into the crack between the worlds.

“Doc?” Maxie tapped my arm. “You still with me?”

My gaze snapped back to her fish-eyed stare. What the hell was wrong with me? I did have a tendency to drift away, but not usually when I was sitting with someone. I’d worked really hard to learn to stay present with clients. I definitely needed more coffee.

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to float away on you. Not enough sleep, I guess.” I wiped the corners of my lips with a napkin. “Yes, absolutely. I’d love to know about the hair. You’ve got to admit it’s unique. When did it turn white?” Forcing the vampire thoughts aside, I relaxed into my chair, appreciating the opportunity to discuss something I wasn’t required to give advice or have an opinion about.

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She scrutinized my face a few seconds longer, one eyebrow raised, then grinned and scooped the thick whiteness back into a tail, holding it with both hands. “When I was twenty years old, something amazing happened to me and my hair changed—overnight—from blond to white. I simply woke up one morning with old-lady hair. Let me tell you what a shock it was to the other girls in my dorm at college—not to mention my family.”

Hmmm. She believes her hair changed overnight. Interesting. I wonder what really happened?

“There’s no way your hair could be described as old-lady hair. It’s gorgeous.” I examined her face, guessing her to be in her late twenties to early thirties. “You said something amazing happened? Amazing good or amazing not-so-good?”

Okay. I didn’t want to be interviewed, but I couldn’t help turning the tables on Maxie. Once a therapist, always a therapist. Lift up the rock and see what’s underneath, that’s my motto. I’ve never been good at small talk.

She stared off for a few seconds, then turned serious eyes back to me. “Amazing good. Maybe I’ll tell you about it after we get to know each other better.”

Hmmm. Secrets. Did she know that offering that kind of tantalizing interpersonal tidbit was like waving a red cape at a bull? I was just about to find a way to sneak into her psychic side door when she scooted her chair closer to the table.

“So, do you believe in vampires?” Maxie fixed her eyes on mine, her lips spreading in a Cheshire-cat smile. “Strictly off the record, of course.”

Talk about a quick change of subject. Maxie was probably a very good reporter, and I smiled in appreciation of her tactics. But I definitely didn’t want to discuss vampires, and the wheels in my brain were spinning, kicking up mental dust, as I tried to think of something innocuous to say. I’m sure my inner struggle was apparent, because I felt various emotions surf across my face.

I must have hesitated long enough that she thought she’d better try something different, because she said,

“Okay, I’ll go first. No interview. Honest. A simple conversation. Just two ordinary businesswomen talking about their daily lives. A couple of regular professionals, discussing alien abductions, vampires, werewolves, reincarnation, demonic possession, and other everyday occurrences. Regular, run-of-the-mill rock-and-roll.” Her voice picked up speed and volume as she spoke.

“I’ve been writing for this magazine for five years and I’ve heard every preposterous story you can imagine. I think I could surprise even you. But in all that time, as I’ve investigated each bizarre allegation thoroughly, I’ve never come across anything that could be even remotely considered paranormal. Not one real vampire. No werewolves. No aliens. No demons. Just a lot of sick, weird, fucked-up humans looking for attention or behaving very badly. I now know for a fact that what you see is what you get.

There is no magic. There is no
Wizard of Oz.
Just the demented little man behind the curtain, pulling the levers.”

She flopped back in her chair, breathless.

Her passionate diatribe had captured the attention of everyone in the coffee shop, and the room was so quiet you could hear a vampire fang descend.

Noticing she was center stage, Maxie smiled, stood, and spread her arms wide, acknowledging one side
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of the room, then the other. Her long veil of hair swayed as she moved. “Thank you, America. Thank you for this honor. They like me! They really like me!” she said, imitating an old Academy Awards acceptance speech.

“Give ’em hell, Maxie!” yelled a young male wearing a backward baseball cap. He thrust his fist into the air. The other customers applauded.

She bowed dramatically, lifted her hair out of the way, and dropped into her chair.

“If I hadn’t found fame and fortune as a magazine reporter, I woulda gone into acting. And who knows?

If this job doesn’t pan out, I still might.” She slapped her thigh with her palm, threw back her head, and howled.

Either Maxie was a certifiable candidate for a rubber room, or she was the most free-spirited person I’d met in a long time. Maybe ever.

The other Starbucks customers applauded again, some howling back at her. Apparently, they were used to her theatrics. I’d thoroughly enjoyed the performance and clapped along with the rest of the audience.

I found myself laughing uninhibitedly. When I realized it had been a while since I’d done that, I was surprised by how good it felt.