The Vampire Shrink (36 page)

Said the spider to the fly.

He pulled a tissue from the box on the nearby table and dabbed at his eyes. “Ah, that felt very good. It's been quite a while since I laughed out loud.”

I gave him a few seconds to collect himself. “I'm glad the laughing felt good. Perhaps we can encourage you to do more of it. And thank you for explaining about what Devereux said. I'm pleased to know I'm safe with you; otherwise, we wouldn't be able to work together.”

Get a grip, Kismet. This isn't just another client you're setting boundaries with. This is a being who sucks the blood of people exactly like you. Is there no end to your political correctness?

“I noticed that your … er … fangs are descended. I understand that some vampires can will them in and out of their gums. Can you do that?”

“No, I don't have that kind of control yet, so my fangs remain in this position all the time.” He raised his hand to cover his mouth. “I hope that doesn't concern or offend you?”

I shook my head. “No, it doesn't.”

“That's good to know.” He lowered his hand again.

I wound a strand of my hair around my finger. “Forgive the rudeness of this question, but I don't understand where vampires get the financial resources to come to a therapist. I'm pleased to speak with you this evening, but I usually require appointments in advance and some kind of payment arrangements. Will that be a difficulty?”

Aha! An escape hatch!

“No.” He smiled broadly and raised his eyes to mine. “The members of Devereux's coven are well taken care of—money is the least of our concerns. I'll pay cash. The fee is irrelevant.”

Well, now, aren't those words that cause a therapist's heart to flutter?

“Thank you. Now let's talk about your issue. How does your disgust at the sight of blood complicate your … experience?”

“I'm afraid I'm going to have to be quite graphic. Are you sure you're willing to listen to this?”

I swallowed the lump that had formed in my throat.
No
! “I'll do the best I can.”

I feel like a newbie, a brand-new therapist sitting with my first client, trying not to screw up. Trying to convince the boogeyman under the bed that there's no boogeyman under the bed.

“Since you're the vampire psychologist, you probably know there are people who enjoy hanging around vampires because they want to have their blood sucked. They crave it.”

Yuck.

I crossed my legs. “Yes, I've heard that.”

He allowed his shoulders to visibly relax and inhaled a deep breath.

He's breathing. Do vampires breathe? Does Devereux? Why didn't I notice that small detail?

“So finding necks to suck on isn't my problem—people offer themselves to me all the time, and all I have to do is tuck in. As long as I can't actually
see
the blood, I'm fine. Like any other vampire, I love the taste of it, and the way it makes me feel is worth whatever it takes to get it. But it's impossible to suck blood without there being any … remains. Residue. Drops. Or, horror of horrors, actual uncontrolled bleeding. You see, sometimes in the midst of a feeding I can get carried away. It really is like having a whole-body orgasm, if you'll forgive my bluntness, and I've been known to enlarge the wound with my fangs when my body starts reacting to the … uh … stimulation. It can be an overwhelming experience. Anyway, if I see even one drop of blood I immediately throw up everything I just swallowed. Then there is
more
blood, which makes me retch until the muscles of my stomach scream with pain.” His eyes had gone wide and glassy as he told his story, and he clasped his hands together so tightly that the white skin had become blue. He sat very stiff and straight.

The obvious terror the story stirred in him caused me to shift in my chair in anticipation of having to perform some vampire CPR. I'd seen clients with that expression on their faces as they described fears of being covered in snakes, eaten by a lion, or burned alive. A phobia is a phobia.

Although I had to admit I wasn't really eager to put the vampire CPR option to the test.

I took a breath and sat back. I noticed that my own hands now clutched the arms of the chair so rigidly, the veins stuck out. I consciously let go and wiggled my fingers to restore the circulation. “That sounds very scary for you. I can totally understand why you'd avoid situations where you have to see blood. Do you remember the first time you had that reaction?”

“Uh, yes. Unfortunately, I do remember. I have to warn you that this might be difficult for you to hear.”

Uh-oh.

He paused and stared at me before he continued. I guessed he was waiting for me to give an indication I was willing to proceed. I nodded.

“It was a few years after I became a vampire. Prior to the event I'm going to tell you about, I could swim in blood and it had no effect on me. It was the first time I drank from a child. A dying child. The little boy was near death from cancer, and I heard him crying through the window. He said, ‘Please don't leave me.' I don't know who he was talking to because no one was there. The child was all alone in that room, but I could see people moving around in the other parts of the house. He was all alone.”

He studied me silently for several seconds. Despite the controlled mask he'd made of his face, his eyes betrayed him by expressing the fear and self-loathing he usually kept locked away.

The words “all alone” had been said with such raw misery that my heart ached. In that moment I understood how difficult it had been for him to tell his story to a therapist—or anyone. I had a clear intuitive sense that he was afraid I'd … what? Run out of the room? Condemn him for being what he was? Grab a stake and hammer and leap on him?

“I understand.” I gave him a gentle smile and nodded. “He was all alone. Then what happened?”

“I waited until everyone else had gone to bed, and then I went to the boy and held him in the dark. I don't know why I felt compelled to go to him—I usually have no interest in children. He was bleeding from his nose and mouth, and I licked the blood from his skin and rocked him. He began to remind me of myself when I was small. I could feel his pain building and, as he was ready to leave his body, I drank him dry. At the last moment he put his arms around my neck and pleaded, ‘Don't leave me, Daddy.' After his soul left his body, I stumbled out into the alley and threw up for the first time.”

Shit. Where do I begin?

I let him see the sympathy and compassion in my eyes and spoke softly. “That's a heartbreaking story. Do you remember a time when you were small when you asked your daddy not to leave?”

He stared at me with horrified, pain-filled eyes. “My father abandoned the family when I was five years old. I remember the night he packed to leave. I didn't understand why he had to go away—I was sure it was my fault, that I had done something wrong, something bad. I begged him to stay. He laughed and pushed me aside. That was the last time I ever saw him. The following years were very lonely.” After he finished sharing the memory, he frowned and stared down at his limp hands in his lap. A tear rolled down his cheek.

“Do you think my experience with that little boy has something to do with my blood phobia? Because of my own father?”

“I do, yes.”

He plucked another tissue from the box and wiped away the tears now streaming down his face.

“You must be right, because I already feel different. Would you mind if we ended our meeting for now? You've given me a lot to think about.”

“I wouldn't mind at all. You do have a lot to process.”

We both stood, and he reached into the pocket of his jacket, pulled out an envelope, and set it on the table. He sniffled a few times. “I don't know what your fees are, but there should be enough in there to hold me for a while. Just let me know when you need more. I promise to make an appointment next time.”

He extended his hand, and I took it. The coolness of his flesh surprised me, and I caught my breath. He noticed my reaction and released my hand.

“I'm sorry. Since I don't drink enough blood, my skin is always cold. I hope I can do something about that. Thank you for today.”

“You're welcome. I look forward to our next session. You might want to consider hypnosis—perhaps we can gently uncover more of the memory that's causing the problem.”

He gave a quick nod.

I walked him to the door and opened it.

He blew his nose on a fresh tissue and left.

I briefly considered sitting at my desk and writing up case notes for Apollo, but I was tired and wanted to go home. I'd write up the notes at home later with a glass of wine.

It wasn't likely I'd forget any of the details.

I thought about Apollo's story and the poor child who'd died in his arms. As sad as it was, I'd actually heard much worse from my human clients.

Who would've thought that a vampire would have the same issue as anyone else—the universal experience of a crappy childhood? Maybe vampires weren't really so different after all.

Yeah, right.

CHAPTER 20

I
t was a miracle. A quiet, drama-free evening.

The police escorted me out of the office and back to my town house without incident. After I wrote up my case notes for Apollo, I enjoyed a long, glorious, undisturbed shower, still wearing the necklace that wouldn't go away. I stood under the spray until the hot water cooled, which was saying something because I had a very large hot water tank. My skin had gotten satisfyingly pruned. I slathered myself with the exquisite and obscenely expensive skin moisturizer my friend regularly sent me from her European exploits.

I snuggled into my Sigmund Freud pajamas—seriously, they're white silk with Sigmund's face splattered like black Rorschach inkblots all over the fabric. They were a hot novelty item at the last American Psychological Association convention in Las Vegas. If that wasn't cozy enough, I dug out my furry Miss Piggy slippers, complete with snout and curly tail, and covered up with my ever-present pink robe. I pulled my hair, which occasionally can feel very heavy, up into a ponytail on the top of my head and let it cascade down around my shoulders in spiral curls.

I was in the midst of total and complete relaxation. Or total and complete denial, whichever you prefer.

I'd just poured a glass of liquid bliss in the form of white wine when the doorbell rang.

Cautious, I turned on the porch light and squinted through the peephole. Either there wasn't anyone there, or my visitor was hiding from view. Or some other option I didn't even want to think about.

After the events of the last week, none of the possibilities was good news.

I chose the “when in doubt, do nothing” approach and was rewarded by a repeat performance of the doorbell tones.

Leaving the chain engaged, I cracked open the door barely enough to scan a small area, which turned out to be not the least bit helpful. I still couldn't see anyone there. My intuition remained silent.

I was just about to close the door when it occurred to me I should ask an obvious question. “Who's there?”

“It is I, Kismet—Devereux. Please let me in.”

Devereux? If it was Devereux, why was he ringing the doorbell? Why didn't he just pop in unannounced, uninvited, as always? Why didn't he simply swoop in like an intrusive bat and snatch me off to another creepy-crawly adventure?

“Why are you here?” I was batting a thousand with Questions for Dummies.

“I have come to make love to you.”

“What?” I croaked. Couldn't say I'd heard that one before.

Since I was still staring at the floor in front of my door, I recognized the black leather boots that stepped into my line of vision. I raised my eyes but could see only more black and a flash of what might have been blond hair.

Apparently he could also see the floor on the other side of the door because he said, his voice oozing amusement, “What are you wearing on your feet?”

I glanced down at the dual Miss Piggys and felt the need to defend them. Her?

“None of your business. What do you really want?” Although I had to admit I'd rather enjoyed the previous answer.

“I spoke the truth. I have come to make love to you. Please open the door.”

How arrogant! And you just assume that's okay with me? That I'm just going to open the door and make another deal with the devil? That I'm even remotely interested in having sex with you after our last trip through the looking glass?

“Hold on. This is crazy. My street is filled with cops and reporters. Why don't they see you?”

“I have created an illusion in their minds. When they look at the porch, they see only what they expect to see.”

“Uh-huh. Likely story. How do I know it's really you? You usually materialize out of thin air.”

“As you wish.”

I heard that familiar little
pop
sound, felt a rush of air, and suddenly knew he was behind me.

I turned, hands on my hips. “Hey! That wasn't an invitation!”

A dazzling smile spread across his face. “You forget I have that handy little mind-reading ability.” He bowed from the waist, and his platinum veil of hair flowed forward, then back as he straightened. Dressed in a variation of his usual leather-god outfit, he was a feast for the eyes. “I rang the doorbell because I thought you would prefer me to enter your home the normal human way. I understand you are weary of the drama that has taken over your life. I do not wish to contribute any further to your discomfort.”

He brought his hands around from behind him. They held a huge bouquet of pink roses and a box of chocolates.

“Gifts for you, my love.”

He leaned in and brushed my lips lightly with his. The familiar, delicious scent of him filled my nostrils, and my lips instinctively puckered in anticipation of more of the same.