The Vampire Shrink (7 page)

Blood drinking as an aphrodisiac?

I tried very hard to keep the neutral expression on my face. “Sexual? Romantic? What happens at these rituals?”

AIDS! Not to mention viruses, bacteria, and horrors I can't even comprehend. What about infections from the cuts? Red alert, Kismet.

“Well, first we order a pizza or something and drink some wine, maybe get high, just the same as any other night. Then we pick a partner, and after we take turns drinking a little blood—not much, just a couple of teaspoons—we have sex. It's the most amazing feeling. I let Eric cut my boob last week and suck on it. It was so hot.”

My breath caught.
Is this what she thinks intimacy is? Where did these ideas come from?

“Are you having safe sex?”

“Don't worry about that.” She nodded vigorously. “I've got a purse full of condoms!”

I tried to visualize a condom big enough to fit over Eric's entire body. I didn't want to come off as sermonizing or lecturing because she wouldn't come back, but I had to find a way to communicate to her how dangerous this choice was.

“Midnight, what about the diseases you can get through blood transmission? What about AIDS? Drinking blood is very dangerous.”

“Vampires can't get diseases.”

Hormone-riddled teenage brain at work here.

“Eric and the other apprentices are just regular guys, aren't they? Human?”

Midnight stared into her lap, silent.

Holy crap. What am I supposed to do about this?

“Will you consider holding off on any more cutting and blood-drinking activities until we explore the possible consequences more thoroughly?”

She stayed silent for so long that I feared she might leap up and flee the office, but she finally clicked her tongue against the back of her teeth. “I guess.”

I let out the breath I'd been unconsciously holding.
Whew. Talk about a pregnant pause. Even if she's just humoring me, it's a start.

“Thank you, Midnight. I appreciate your open mind and your willingness to trust in our work together. So, outside of the rituals at Eric's apartment, the apprentices mostly just dress up and hang around with Dev and his vampire friends at the club downtown?”

She nodded.

“Tell me more about Dev.”

She got that faraway look in her eyes again and lifted out of the subdued mood she'd retreated into.

“He really rocks. So hot. He's over six feet tall. I am so into tall guys. Gorgeous long blond hair, aqua—not blue, not green, but aqua—eyes, and a killer bod. He's always wearing some kind of tight dark leather.” She sighed and drifted off again for a moment.

Hmmm. That does sound interesting.

Chuckling, I said, “I get the picture. But what's his story? Why is he hanging out at a bar in downtown Denver? What does he do? Who is he?”

“He doesn't talk much about that. He told me once that he's been a vampire for eight hundred years and that he really loves Colorado because the mountains remind him of someplace in Europe he lived before he died. He said he's only been here in the United States for about thirty years. Before that, he lived in some country where they speak a weird language, and he has a funny accent. But an amazing voice. He seems to have a ton of money. He has this excellent loft down the street from the bar, which, by the way, he also owns. The loft is so cool. Sometimes he lets us come over and blast some tunes, and he always keeps lots of food around, even though he doesn't eat any of it.”

He's been a vampire for eight hundred years? That's quite a wild story. Why does this supposedly gorgeous, wealthy man hang around with teenagers? He invites them to his loft but has lots of rules for them. Does he see himself as a father figure? Or is he a clever predator?

I shifted my gaze to the clock and back. “Dev sounds like an interesting man, and I'd like to hear more about him, but we're out of time for today. Can you come back tomorrow?”

“Sure. I don't have much else to do during the day when all the vampires are asleep.”

This is much more serious than I thought. If this man actually exists, it isn't going to be easy to convince her that his vampire claim isn't real. She's besotted.

“Thanks for telling me the story,” I said. “It helps me to know you better. I look forward to discussing the vampires—and Dev—in greater detail.”

She nodded, smoothed her dress, then draped her cape on her shoulders. “It's good to talk to somebody about it. I have to be careful what I tell anyone. Even Emerald.”

Can't even tell her friend? Predators isolate and control their victims, threaten them to keep the secrets.

I walked over to my desk and collected the appointment book. We settled on a time for the next day, and she left. I would have to rearrange my schedule to squeeze her in, but it couldn't be helped. Midnight's situation had escalated from troubling to dangerous.

After my last client that evening, I updated files and added progress notes. My attention kept returning to Midnight and my clear sense that she'd gotten caught up in a sick situation she was unprepared for. The more I thought about it, the greater the realization that I had no firm foundation for establishing an effective treatment. I didn't know if her vampire tale was completely delusional, and none of the characters she mentioned actually existed, or if she was involved with individuals who were taking advantage of her naïveté for nefarious purposes and encouraging the fantasy. Both choices sucked, no pun intended.

Maybe I could find out if any of the people involved were under eighteen and get Social Services involved. Role-playing predators. What was next?

Clearly, I needed more resources. Luckily, one of Denver's few remaining independent bookstores, The Torn Cover, was conveniently located a few blocks from my office. I decided to swing by on my way home and check their large selection of psychology books to see what I could find. Since the store would still be open for a couple of hours and I hadn't eaten much during the day, I stopped in the restaurant next door for a sandwich and a glass of wine.

I was halfway through my meal when a very attractive man entered and sat at the bar. He was dressed in a flattering dark suit, his wavy light-brown hair skimming the collar of his shirt. His strong features created an appealing profile. My entire body tensed up. I hadn't been exaggerating when I told Nancy that being in the presence of a great-looking male—in a nonwork situation—brought out the worst in me. She knew some of the facts about my childhood, but not all of them. I was a classic example of post-traumatic stress disorder. My shyness had been a beacon, attracting every predator in the environment, including the popular handsome boys, who'd taunted me. Even now, part of me wanted to regress into a stammering adolescent, waiting for the next cruel prank or hateful humiliation.

The table I'd chosen was in a dark corner, so I figured I was safe. Invisible. I wouldn't even have to be polite, and, once again, I'd keep the world from discovering my acute social discomfort. Not that the world cared, of course, but I clung to my illusions. Maybe it was just me who didn't want to face them.

Just as I drank the last swallow of wine, the man turned on his stool, stared directly at me, and smiled. He lifted his wineglass in my direction.

Okay. Here's my opportunity to connect with a man. How hard can it be? Just smile back, Kismet. Nothing bad will happen.

My heart tripped, and my stomach muscles tightened.

Maybe next time …

As a psychologist, I knew several techniques to calm anxiety. I'd become masterful at many of them. And they often worked. But if I could distance myself—flee—that was always my option of choice.

I made a quick, ungraceful exit from the restaurant, bumping a table as I passed, and entered the bookstore. I didn't have the nerve to look back to check the man's reaction to my hasty retreat.

What a whack job, Kismet.

As usual, I was annoyed at myself for not being able to confront my issue. Once again I'd been ridiculous and childish, reacting as if every man was out to hurt me, and I wasn't strong enough to handle it. I thought about Nancy's challenge—her suggestion that I walk up to a handsome man and just make conversation. I cringed.

Get a grip, Kismet! You're supposed to be an expert at these things. You can do it! Force yourself. Stop being a wuss. Just find a man and go say hello. Pretend he's a client. You don't have any problems talking to male clients. You're good at hiding behind your professional persona. This weird behavior only happens in your personal life.

Browsing through the bookshelves soothed me, and I soon found myself engrossed in reading the titles on the spines. Determined to deal with my fear, I lifted a new release off the shelf, opened it, and pretended to skim the page while looking around for an appropriate male. After a couple of minutes, I noticed a man in a tan business suit perusing the computer section on the shelf behind me. Giving myself a pep talk, I gathered my will and turned, planning to inch over to where I thought he was standing. I bumped into his back. He'd obviously moved.

“Oh! I'm so sorry—please excuse me.”

He barely looked up from the book he held. “No problem.”

When I just stood there, he gave me his full attention. “Yes?”

“Uh.”

He raised his left hand, displaying a wedding band. “I'm married. But thanks anyway.” He replaced the book on the shelf and strode down the aisle.

Shit. How embarrassing.

My cheeks burned. Feeling like the biggest idiot on the planet and fighting the strong urge to run away, I forced myself to return to my original task: looking for vampire-wannabe resource material. The more I retreated into my psychologist role, the better I felt.

“Excuse me?”

I glanced up at the very pleasant-looking man standing next to me, smiling. My hands went clammy. “Yes?”
Okay. Just smile. This doesn't have to be a big deal.

“Do you work here? I could use some help finding—”

“No,” I interrupted, smile frozen on my face. “I don't. Sorry.” That wasn't the first time I'd been mistaken for a clerk. I was good at blending into the scenery. Chameleon Kismet. Why did I even bother?

That was all the social interaction I could handle. I set the book I'd used as a prop on the table and hurried away.

It was clear that if it were up to me, I'd never have another personal relationship. Apparently I couldn't practice what I preached. Maybe I should just get a dog or a fish and be done with it.

CHAPTER 3

T
he next day Midnight arrived for her appointment wearing her white makeup and the fake fangs. Instead of being shrouded in a long cape, she was dressed like that campy TV vamp, Elvira, Mistress of the Dark, in a very low-cut, cleavage-enhancing tight black dress. She glided into the room and bonelessly melted into the chair. She appeared to be in an upbeat mood.

I picked up my pad and pen and sat down. “It's nice to see you again, Midnight. I can't help but notice that you're smiling a lot today. What's got you in such fine spirits?”

How can she even function wearing those silly fangs?

“I met someone.” Her grin spread wider.

Now we're talking.
I settled back in my chair.
Maybe a nice college guy or hi-tech entrepreneur?

“He must really be something to light you up this way. Tell me about him.”

“He's one of the new vampires who's started coming to the club. His name is Bryce, and he is so hot.” She twisted a spider ring on her left thumb. “I've seen him hanging out for a couple of weeks, but it wasn't until yesterday that he came over and talked to me. We spent the whole night together, and it was like a dream. The first time I ever had sex with a real vampire.”

What? Sex with a strange vampire wannabe?
I struggled to keep the dismay from my face. To give myself a moment to regroup, I jotted down a couple of notes on the pad.
Well
. I gave a mental sigh.
I guess it was too much to hope that the fantasy would start to fade already. I wonder if they'd take away my license if I locked her in a closet until she passes through this phase?

I met her eyes. “You had sex with a stranger?”

Her body language altered ever so slightly, just enough for me to notice that my question had pushed a button.

“That makes it sound bad or dirty. It wasn't dirty. It was beautiful. We just got swept away.” She almost sang the last two words. Still smiling, she carefully smoothed out the wrinkles in her dress, avoiding eye contact.

I wish someone would throw away the book that we women keep handing down to each other. The one with all the ridiculous reasons why we lose our minds in the presence of some man or other.

“How old is Bryce?” I asked.

She examined the blood-colored fingernails on her right hand. “I'm not sure. I don't think he's as old as Devereux—around three hundred, maybe?—but he looks about thirty.”