The Vampire Shrink(27)
Author: Lynda Hilburn

Devereux turned in my direction and held out his hand.

I turned anxious eyes to Amara. She smiled and nodded.

My feet had a mind of their own and I found myself standing and inching over to where he waited. I stretched out my hand and the moment our fingers met, there was a sharp sound that reminded me of a whip cracking and the light exploded and engulfed us.

Then there was nothing.

Chapter Eighteen

I woke up na**d in my bed. Naked except for the pen­tagram necklace.

At least I assumed it was my bed, because I couldn't open my eyes. I raised my hands up to investigate and found the source of the problem. All that mascara I'd worn the night before had somehow congealed into gummy clumps, hermet­ically sealing my upper lashes to my lower.

I spent a couple of minutes prying them apart, opening and closing my lids to test the equipment, and then discov­ered I'd apparently rubbed my eyes at some point because there was a big, black stain on the side of my right index finger. I knew the mirror would present me with even more delightful news.

But, thankfully, I was in my own bed.

Staring up at the ceiling, I listened to the sounds floating in through the window, appreciating the evidence that, for some people, normal reality still existed. Lawns were mowed, dogs were walked, greetings were called out from yard to yard, and cars were driven. Music still blared from the radios of passing vehicles and children played. The everyday world that I used to belong to—that I took for granted—evidently continued on as if nothing earth-shattering had happened.

Memory fragments from the night before bobbed like ap­ples in the tub of my brain, waiting for me to capture one and take a bite.

Bite.

I bolted up, filled each hand with a breast and warily low­ered my eyes, afraid to see what might be there. Instead of the torn, bruised, and traumatized skin I'd anticipated, there was nothing but the white, lightly-blue-veined expanse I'd al­ways had.

Breathing a sigh of relief, I watched the patterns of sun­light play across the wall in front of me and felt numb.

There were only two possible explanations for what was happening to me. Either I was in the midst of a psychic meltdown—maybe even a psychotic break—and the en­tire sequence of events had only unfolded inside my fevered, twisted little mind or, I had truly entered a monstrous world, where vampires drank blood, levitated in the air, read your mind, and seduced your body.

Quite frankly, I didn't know how to deal with either option.

My mouth was as dry as the lunar landscape and it tasted like I'd scoured the floor of an ER with my tongue.

A wisp of memory floated into my brain and opened a Pandora's Box of horrible possibilities.

There's no way in hell I drank blood. Not one chance in this or any other universe. Not even if someone held me down and forced my mouth open. Yuck, yuck, yuck.

I held the palm of my hand in front of my mouth, breathed into it, and almost gagged.

No. I just must have eaten something funky. Something gross. I hope I didn't share this breath with anyone I actually like.

The digital clock on my nightstand showed 1:00 p.m. That information didn't really tell me much, because I wasn't even sure what day it was. Panicking, I picked up the TV re­mote control and clicked on CNN, assuming the data panel on the bottom of the screen would have the correct date. Sunday. Relief swamped me. I hadn't lost any more time than I already knew about and, more important, I hadn't missed any client appointments.

I swivelled my head around, stretching the tight muscles of my neck and shoulders, then swung my legs over the side of the bed. I turned off the TV, forced myself vertical and walked over to the closet to fetch my comfortable pink robe. I slipped it on, tied the sash and a sparkling blue fabric caught my eye. The lovely dress I'd worn the night before hung neatly in the closet, and on the floor underneath it were the matching shoes. Paying closer attention, I found the corset and stockings draped across the rocking chair in the corner.

I hoped it had been Devereux who'd brought me home, un­dressed me and tucked me into bed. But the startling possibility that it might not have been him, or that things I didn't want to know about might have happened, froze me like a statue.

Laying a hand against the wall to brace myself, I closed my eyes and sent my awareness through my body. I'd always been able to use my intuition to check out the state of my physical health and recently that ability seemed especially heightened.

Whether I wanted to know about it or not, I needed to find out if there'd been any sexual activity—either consensual or forced. I steeled myself for possible bad news and asked the silent question. None of my usual indicators fired a warn­ing, so I asked again, just to make sure.

As before, calm silence.

I'd learned to trust the subtle "yes" or "no" reactions of my body and felt relatively confident that I hadn't been physically harmed while I was sleeping. Or unconscious. Or whatever I'd been.

A mini tsunami of relief washed over my fear-contaminated mental shoreline and I straightened, tightened the sash on my robe, and headed downstairs for desperately needed coffee.

Halfway down the stairs I remembered that the last time I'd seen Alan, he'd been sacked out on my couch. It had been eigh­teen hours since I'd left him sleeping there. I couldn't imagine he'd still be snoozing. Then I remembered how his unnatu­ral sleep came to be, and decided that rational rules wouldn't necessarily apply. I figured he'd be rightfully confused and probably angry, and he'd want to know where I went.

Sure enough, the couch was empty. I walked around the room, checking for a note, but there was no sign of one. I scanned the white board in the kitchen. Nothing.

Remembering that his clothes had been in the washing machine, I lifted the lid and there they were. Still wet. He hadn't even transferred them to the dryer.

Why would he have gone out in those ridiculous pink sweat pants? Unless he got another call from the police and had to hurry out. But, even so.

I went over to the front window, lifted one of the slats in the mini-blinds—just in case the media circus still had its tent erected—and tried to find Alan's car. It was there. Right where he left it yesterday. And, thankfully, my lawn was media-free.

What the hell was going on?

I did another walk-through of my house, calling his name loudly, but got no response.

Still trying to figure out the mystery, I absentmindedly went through the motions of making coffee and then remem­bered the phone. I hadn't checked the messages yet, and if Alan had to leave quickly, he might have called. Plus, I'd contacted Midnight and Ronald and had left—or been snatched—before they could call me back.

While the coffee brewed and sent its heavenly aroma directly into my nostrils, I punched in the retrieval code to listen to my messages.

There were several from media outlets, a few from con­cerned clients, wondering about my safety, and one from a friend in Paris, who laughingly said she'd seen a report on CNN about a flaky psychologist in Denver who worked with vampires. So much for my career.

Midnight had left a message saying she and Ronald were not dealing with Emerald's death very well, and they were worried about me. She wanted to know if I could possibly see them for a joint appointment on Sunday.

I was just about to hang up so I could call her when I heard the first couple of words of the next message and the hairs on the back of my neck rose.

Brother Luther's familiar southern-accented voice screamed out of the earpiece.

"I know what you did. I know where you've been. Con­sorting with foul creatures of the night! You'll be punished! You'll burn in the fires of Hell! Unholy Jezebel! Whore of

Babylon! Suffer not a witch to live! No one can save you from the wrath of the Almighty! I am the messenger. You have been marked. You will burn."

My eyes and my mouth were wide open and after the message ended I felt slimed. As if someone had thrown a bucket of manure on me through the phone. The negative energy of the call hit my solar plexus like a fist. I saved his hateful tirade because I was definitely reporting him to the police. The call had to be some form of harassment, at the very least.

Finally, there was a message from Alan. He spoke in a very soft, subdued voice, as if he'd just awakened.

"Kismet? You're probably going to think I'm insane—if you don't already—but I'm home and I don't know how I got here. The last thing I remember is being at your house and seeing Devereux appear in your living room. It's Sunday morning, the sun just came up, and I'm still wearing your pink sweats. I went outside to look for my car and it isn't here. I think I left it at your house along with my clothes, but I don't remember. You're probably thinking I had some kind of blackout, or breakdown—and maybe I did—but I'd appre­ciate if you'd call me when you get this and help me figure out what the hell is going on."

I disconnected, put the phone down and poured a cup of coffee. I plopped down into one of the kitchen chairs. Some­times there's just too much information for a brain to process.

Postponing the inevitable, I allowed myself the luxury of sitting still while I finished my first cup, then poured another one and picked up the phone.

Punching in Midnight's phone number, I got her answering machine. I apologized for not being able to return her call sooner, and told her I'd had to deal with personal busi­ness, but that I was fine and she and Ronald shouldn't worry about me. I said I was willing to meet them at my office later in the day if they still wanted an appointment, and left my cell phone number.

I dialed Alan's cell phone next and he must have been using it, because I went directly to voice mail. I told him I didn't think he was insane, and that his car was still here, along with his clothing. I said I had to meet with some cli­ents, but he should let me know what he wanted to do about picking up his possessions. I'm sure my voice sounded as tired as my spirit felt.

What I wanted more than anything was to do absolutely nothing. To sit quietly without thinking. Without trying to interpret, understand or accept. Without being afraid.

Since none of that was likely, I rinsed out my coffee mug and went back upstairs to take a shower, carrying my cell phone with me.

Seeing my face in the bathroom mirror caused me to laugh out loud. I'd really done a job of spreading the mas­cara around my eyes and upper cheeks, and I looked like a child had scribbled on me with a black magic marker.

Gorilla breath and raccoon eyes. See what happens when you stay at the Ball past midnight?

I momentarily wondered if I'd made myself this attrac­tive a sight before or after my pale knight dropped me off. Or, should I say, my pale bloodsucker? I'd better get used to calling a spade a spade.

As attracted as I was to Devereux, I wanted to keep my distance from him for a while. To pretend to be nor­mal again. But how did one remain distant from something that could come and go through thought? Something that moved through time and space like shifting from room to room? Something that didn't give a shit about anyone else's boundaries or needs?

I turned on the spray, dropped my robe on the floor, pulled the necklace over my head and laid it on the counter and stepped into the shower.

After blissing out for a few moments, letting the hot water cascade down my body, I poured shampoo on my hair and piled the soapy mass on top of my head. I picked up the plas­tic bottle of body gel and was spreading it across my br**sts when my hand slid over something on my chest. The neck­lace. I'd forgotten to take it off.

Wait. No. I didn't forget. I did take it off. I laid it on the counter.

I pulled aside the shower curtain and squinted through the fog that the hot water had created in the small room and scanned the counter. No necklace.

I put my hand back on the pentagram and Devereux's voice whispered in my mind, "This necklace is your protec­tion. You must never remove it."

What the hell?

I looked around, expecting him to pop in, but nothing happened. I thought vampires couldn't go out in the sun­light, so where'd the voice come from? But then, after what I'd seen, I could testify that there was no rule book for what Master Devereux could or couldn't do.

I lifted the necklace over my head again and in the nano seconds it took me to do that, the pentagram returned to rest between my br**sts.

The same words floated through my mind.

"This necklace is your protection. You must never re­move it."

Apparently, Devereux had somehow implanted a mes­sage in the necklace and it replayed any time the pendant lost contact with my skin.

Well, to hell with it. I'd leave the damn necklace on. It was just another way that Devereux had reached out to intrude on my life, and I wasn't going to give it one more mo­ment of attention than I had to.

I finished washing and rinsing, wrapped up in a towel and stepped out of the shower.

My cell phone rang. It was Midnight calling to schedule a time to meet.

We set the appointment for one hour later, which gave me time to get dressed and eat something. My empty stomach echoed like an abandoned cave.

A short time later, I'd just picked up my briefcase and purse to head out the door when my cell phone rang again. This time it was Alan. He sounded a lot more solid, and had retrieved his usual cocky attitude.

He launched right in.

"So, did I imagine it, or did Devereux plant a passionate wet one on you when I was there yesterday?"

Uh, I seem to recall something of that nature. "You want to tell me what's going on?"

"No."

"What?"

"I don't mean no, I don't want to tell you. I mean not right now. I need to get over to my office for an appoint­ment. Plus, I'm seriously burned out on talking or thinking about all the weird stuff that's been going on. I'm running on empty. Could we talk about it later?"