The Vampire Shrink (51 page)

Midnight spent less than a week in the hospital and was released to her parents, who made some changes of their own. The three of them came in for family therapy sessions, and Midnight was able to talk about the pain of her mother's emotional abandonment, as well as her father's alcoholism. As a result, her mother reordered her priorities, cut her weekly hours at work back to forty, and has been spending regular time with Midnight, who has begun to blossom. Her father went into a recovery program and, as of today, has had thirty days of sobriety. He also switched psychiatrists and is exploring a new medication for his schizophrenia. So far, things look promising. Midnight grieved the loss of Bryce, or the idealized version she thought she knew, but she's making good decisions. She's still seeing Ronald and admits that while being with a human male isn't quite as exciting as the chaotic life she had with a member of the undead, she's adjusting. She hasn't given up the vampires altogether, but our therapy sessions are more about her now and less about her fixation on vampires. She's making plans to attend college and is content to live at home for a while.

Brother Luther/Lucifer hasn't contacted me. Yet. Discovering a vampire with dissociative identity disorder—what used to be known as multiple personality disorder—has piqued my interest in the diagnosis, and I've been doing research. It's clear we haven't heard the last of the demented bloodsucker, so I want to be armed with as much information and as many skills as possible when he circles back this way. According to the reports of blood-drained bodies, he's moved on to another one of those pockets of escalating good and evil: Sedona, Arizona.

So has Alan.

He stopped by to say good-bye one afternoon about a week after the insanity at the haunted castle. After a couple of awkward moments, we practically leaped into each other's arms. I don't think either of us expected that. His lips were as soft, warm, and inviting as always, and I don't know what to do with the feelings I have for him. He plans to follow the monster's trail wherever it takes him. I've had a few emails from him since he left, reporting his progress in the hunt for the killer—and his search for his mother. He'll never give up on finding her, either. He said he plans to visit Denver in the near future, which makes me excited and nervous.

After my lifelong awkwardness with relationships, I'm grateful for all the “normal” feelings I'm having. Even if they make me uncomfortable.

I can't be in love—or lust, or whatever it is—with two men, can I?

I don't know. Stranger things have happened. But I do know that vampires exist. Vampires, and ghosts, and who knows what else.

What does that mean for me? Hell if I know.

But I'm ready to find out.

Blood Therapy Sneak Peek

How will Kismet handle the world of vampires that she's been swept into?

Is she equipped to help this new kind of clientele?

Can Devereux keep her safe from all the dangers of the undead?

What exactly does he mean when he calls her his “mate”?

What role will Alan play in her future?

Find out what perils and pleasures await Dr. Knight in the tantalizing sequel, Blood Therapy.

CHAPTER 1

“B
ut she's fat, Dr. Knight!” The lithe vampire was wringing his hands compulsively in his lap as he whined, “You
know
fat women remind me of my mother …”

“Yes, Nicky. I know.” I took a deep breath and struggled to keep my expression neutral. He'd repeated this story several times in earlier therapy sessions. “It's very unfair that you were turned by a … large … female vampire. I do understand that she insists that you share her coffin—and other things.”

Even vampires think it's okay to denigrate people of size—well, why not? They used to be human.

He leapt off the couch and paced along the lush blue carpet in the space between us. “Just so you know, it ain't that I've got anything against my mother. She was a nice lady. She did the best she could. I guess it wasn't her fault she had a disease or condition or something that made her blimp up to three hundred pounds.” He strode to the window and stood silently staring out for a few seconds, his hands clasped behind his back. “She didn't mean for all the kids in the neighborhood to make fun of me for having a hippo mom. I'm not blaming her. I tried not to be disgusted by her.” His voice softened. “I was sorry when she died.”

Setting my notepad and pen on the table next to my chair, I rose and joined him at the window. Sometimes just being with a client is the best I can do. We stood together, watching the lights of Denver glitter from our lofty vantage point.

Maybe I should change my title to Dr. Kismet Knight, Vampire Whisperer.

I studied his frowning reflection in the glass. He was an attractive young man, closer to pretty than handsome—the word “winsome” came to mind. His dancer's body and long, silky light-brown hair gave him a decidedly androgynous appearance. He looked to be in his early twenties, but I knew he'd been a vampire for fifty years.

“Last week you said that you were going to tell Wanda why you have strong negative reactions when she tries to have sex with you or wants to keep you in the coffin all night. Did you talk to her?”

He gasped and his gaze shot to mine, his deep, green eyes staring wide. He looked as horrified as if I'd come at him with a sharp stake. “N—No, no! I could never talk to her about those things—I could never disobey my moth—I mean, Wanda.” Glazed eyes now transfixed on the window, he hugged himself tightly for a moment, then raised a slender wrist to his mouth and began gnawing furiously.

“Nicky!” I jumped aside as blood spurted from the holes he'd made in his arm, splashing onto the window, fouling my black pantsuit, and oozing into the carpet. “What are you doing? Please stop!”
What the hell? He's never done anything like that before.

He stopped chewing on himself long enough to speak. He turned to me, blood dripping from his fangs, and said, “It makes me feel better, Dr. Knight. I saw this TV show about a girl who cuts herself with razor blades. She said it relieved her anxiety. I tried cutting, but the wounds healed too fast—this works for me. I've been doing it for a while. It really takes my mind off whatever I'm worried about. You said I should learn different ways to cope, didn't you?”

Holy crap. Be careful what you ask for …

“Hurting yourself wasn't what I had in mind, Nicky. Please stop.” My heart was still racing, and my breath came in shallow bursts. I was sure I looked shocked as I surveyed the red stains on the wall and carpet and examined my soiled slacks. I was definitely going to have to start wearing blood-repellant leather clothing.

He reluctantly lowered his arm, which had already stopped bleeding. The holes disappeared as I watched. Still sniffling, he covered his face with his hands, then mumbled, “I'm sorry, Dr. Knight. I didn't mean to be bad. If you tell Wanda, she'll punish me.”

Does he think that's a good thing or a bad thing? Knowing Nicky, it could go either way.

“We don't have to tell Wanda anything about what happens in our sessions, Nicky.” I recognized the familiar pattern: progress gained in one hour usually evaporated in the next. Every time I met with Nicky I felt like we'd stumbled into an old
X-Files
episode. We were stuck in an endless, repeating time loop—although he didn't appear to notice. Apparently he'd been cycling through this approach-avoidance pattern with his maker for the last five decades. I didn't know enough about the bond between a vampire and his creator to make an educated guess about what would help him. Hell, it'd been less than three months since I'd blundered into the bloodsucker underworld, and I'd only been officially counseling vampires for a few weeks. I was lucky I hadn't become an unwilling evening snack or coffin toy yet.

His eyes now glued to my face, his fangs fully extended, he slowly raised his arm toward his mouth again. He thrust his tongue out in quick darting movements, licking the dried blood from his arm, all the while shifting his weight from foot to foot. He inched his arm closer to his teeth.

Gee, what a surprise. He wants to see what I'll do, how far he can push me.

“Nicky?” I layered my
I'm an authority
tone into my voice. “Don't even think about it.” Crossing my arms over my chest, I examined the spatter. “Who's going to clean up the blood on the glass and the carpet? It seems only fair that you should take care of that.”

He dropped his arm, his chin trembling. “What?” A tear slid down his cheek. “You want me to
clean
? I don't know how to get blood out of stuff—Wanda always does that. See how messed up I am? I can't do anything! You've got to help me, Dr. Knight!”

Same song, same verse …
“I'm here to teach you to help yourself, Nicky. If you keep coming to therapy, keep practicing your skills, I promise things can get better.”

A muscle jumped in his cheek and he frowned, then he turned back to the window and stared out, unconvinced.

Nicky was young for a vampire, at least compared to some of the other multi-century specimens I'd had on my couch, and he was struggling through an extended undead adolescence. I'd discovered the greater the time since the turning, the more autonomy the undead acquired. Nicky would probably figure things out eventually. Maybe. I intended to speak to Devereux, the master of the local vampire coven and my—what? Boyfriend? Significant other? Friend with benefits? None of those descriptions quite fit—about my conflicted client.

For my safety and their confidentiality, I insisted that all my supernatural clients sign a Release of Information form, giving me permission to consult with their leader. I didn't want any pointy surprises. But Devereux had been so busy, and so out of sorts, as he recovered from being captured and subjected to a black magic ritual orchestrated by a demented offspring, the bloodsucker formerly known as Bryce, that I hadn't had time to broach the subject.

“It'll be okay, Nicky. You'll work things out with Wanda. You always do,” I said softly. I raised my hand to pat him on the shoulder, then thought better of it. Vampires couldn't be counted on to have human-like reactions, and I was still learning to alter my behavior with my nocturnal clients. Nicky was too immature to be completely trustworthy.

Maybe I need to bring Wanda in for some couples therapy. Note to self: Buy rubber sheets for the furniture.

“
How
will it be okay?” He turned sad eyes to me. “She's my maker, so I'm tied to her forever. She'll never let me go.”

“I don't know,” I glanced at the clock, “but I'm going to ask someone who might have some advice for you.”
Where's a bloodsucking clinical supervisor when I need one?

“Someone?” He tilted his head, confused. “You mean a human?”

“No, not a human, a vampire. Someone powerful.” I stepped back from the window and walked toward the door to the waiting room. “That's all the time we have for tonight, Nicky. I can't promise anything, but I'll tell you what I discover when I see you next week.”

He skipped across the room, swinging his arms, a wide smile on his face. “Do you mean you'll ask the master?”

Everyone in the local vampire community knew I had a unique relationship with Devereux. In fact, my undead main squeeze had been graphically clear about what he'd do to any vampire who laid a fang on me. So far, his threats had kept me off the menu.

I turned the handle and opened the door.

Ensconced on the white couch in my waiting room sat the blond god in question, decked out in his usual body-skimming, high-fashion black leathers. His thick platinum hair flowed down his well-toned chest in the most touchable, inviting manner. Blue-green gemstone eyes sparkled.

A fallen angel.

He gave a devastating grin, and Nicky gasped and fell to his knees. “Master!”

As always, when Devereux was near my body developed a mind of its own. My heart pounded, my mouth declared a drought, and my knees softened. I blinked to clear the sudden fog and clutched the door-knob for support. I didn't know what it was about him—his mystical vampire vibe or maybe his personal charisma and raw sex appeal—but once again my brain cells refused to report for duty and my libido dimmed the lights.

My mouth sagged open. I stared at him, and the room temperature suddenly spiked. Sweat beaded on my forehead and trickled between my breasts.

Whew! Did somebody turn up the heat in here? Maybe I should just take off a few of these clothes …

“Good evening, Dr. Knight,” the gorgeous nightwalker said, widening his dazzling smile as he rose in a fluid motion. “I hope I am not interrupting.”

Interrupting? Am I doing something? Oh, yeah. Counseling. Client. Psychologist. I remember.
I leaned toward Devereux and inhaled deeply.
There's that amazing aroma. Spicy. Earthy. Sensual. Edible. Wait, what's happening? Snap out of it, Kismet! Why does he always scramble my senses?

As I tried—and failed—to form coherent words, Nicky speed-crawled across the floor and wrapped his arms, like fleshy shackles, around Devereux's legs. He pressed his face against the supple leather. “Master! I can't believe I'm in the same room with you. What an honor.”

Devereux arched an eyebrow, his disturbingly sensual lips gently lifting at the corners. He stared down at his devotee. “Rise, child.”

Nicky lurched to his feet like he'd been yanked up by invisible hands. A look of adoration on his face, he stared into Devereux's eyes.

“Say goodnight to Dr. Knight, and be on your way,” the master crooned in his deep, vibrant voice.

His eyes still locked on Devereux's, Nicky mumbled, “G'night, Doctor,” then he turned, zombie-like, and shuffled out the door into the hallway.