The Vampire Shrink(31)
Author: Lynda Hilburn

My eyes flew open and I noticed I was tucked into my bed, and Devereux was fully dressed.

He sat next to me and brushed a lock of hair away from my face.

"For eight hundred years I waited for this night. I am very much in love with you. I do not expect you to return my feelings right away. I understand that this is all new to you. I only ask that you give me a chance to win your heart."

He leaned over, brushed my lips with his and vanished.

I fell back asleep with the lyrics of Heart's classic "Magic Man" flowing through my mind.

Chapter Twenty-One

The screeching of the alarm clock dragged me, kicking and screaming, back to the land of the living.

I groaned, rolled over and turned off the annoying siren.

I'd had the most amazing dream. Or to be more accu­rate, I was in the middle of it when the damn alarm went off. I knew I had to get up, but it was so tempting just to lie there and revel in the memories from the previous night and the remnants of the nocturnal fantasy.

In the dream I'd been with Devereux again, but this time we were outside, in the sunlight, on top of a beautiful moun­tain, surrounded by other peaks. I could actually feel the breeze blowing through my hair and across my body. Which was na**d, by the way.

As was Devereux's. Yum.

The muscles of my va**na contracted as I remembered I

Devereux, stretched out like an alabaster nature god in the vivid green grass, with me on top of him, riding that impres­sive erection, as we both screamed with pleasure.

It seemed so real. The sun shining on Devereux's pale skin, the feel of the grass on my knees and lower legs as I straddled him, a wafting of evergreen in the air.

After sharing another cosmic orgasm I collapsed on his firm chest and felt his arms close around me as his lips pas­sionately reclaimed mine. I

Then, in another of his smooth moves, he flipped me over so I was on my back in the grass and he kissed his way down my body. Faster than I could see, he bent my knees, opened my legs, and began to lick my clitoris. His tongue was soft, relentless, and had honed in on the perfect spot. Impossibly, within seconds I felt another powerful wave of ecstasy build­ing. After he pushed me over the edge, he angled his mouth ever so slightly and gently sank his fangs into the soft lip next to my clit. There was a fleeting sting as his needle-sharp ca­nines pierced the tender skin and he began to suck, but that was quickly drowned out by the mother of all orgasms.

Waves of intense pleasure built, one upon the next, as I screamed words in a language I didn't know. Just when I thought I would go mad if the sensations didn't stop, he ran his tongue over the tiny punctures, kissed me there and sat up, a wicked smile on his amazing face.

That's when I was rudely interrupted and forced to resur­face into consensus reality.

But, damn if it wasn't the best dream ever. Even thinking about it gave me a hot body rush.

I stuffed my newly reawakened libido with a sigh.

Back to the real world.

All it took was the simple act of sitting up to remind me that my physical body, as well as my dream body, had under­gone quite a workout only a few hours before.

That realization birthed a silly grin.

I guess it could have been the fact that, after two years, I'd been royally pleasured by the best lover I'd ever had.

Magnificently shagged. Awesomely boinked. Spectacularly screwed. We'd surely broken the world record for the num­ber of orgasms a couple could have and still be alive to talk about it.

Well, one of us was alive to talk about it, anyway.

I sat back against the very same headboard that had been witness to the athletic portion of the performance and sighed happily, still unable to stop smiling.

It occurred to me that I'd never asked Devereux where he went during the daylight hours. Did he sleep in a coffin? Maybe sleep was the wrong word. But he'd told me he dreams. So how could he dream if he didn't sleep? How could he dream if he just died when the sun came up?

Now that I was actually beginning to accept the ludicrous idea that not only did vampires exist, but I was having a mad, passionate, sexual relationship with the Head Poobah, I real­ized I was very curious.

If I was going to counsel real vampires, I needed to ask lots more questions and get much better answers.

I needed to make sure I didn't simply shift from a total refusal to believe anything paranormal, to a complete accep­tance of any and all vampire weirdness. That was just too extreme for me and not in the least scientific.

I threw the covers back, heaved my legs over the side of the bed, stood and attempted to stretch. All the major muscle groups in my body ganged up on me at once and started whin­ing. If it hadn't been for the fact that I had a full client load for the next twelve hours, I'd have considered diving back into the bed and pulling the covers over my head. With any luck, I'd fall back asleep and have the mountain dream again.

But instead, I promised the complaining muscles a long, hot shower so I propelled myself in that direction.

I hoped I'd be able to wipe the goofy smile off my face when I got to my office. But, on the other hand, it might do my clients good to have their notions about me confounded, to help them realize that change really could happen. Even to me.

Walking to the bathroom reminded me, again, what happened to muscles if you didn't use them. The area be­tween my legs was tender and sore, which was to be expected after considering the size of the object that'd been jammed in there.

I started the shower, adjusted the water temperature and stepped in. The soothing water flowed down my body, mi­raculously easing all the tight muscles while relaxing me into a boneless state. I washed my hair, then soaped the rest of me. The lathering came to an abrupt halt when I reached the area between my legs. Not only was it tender, but the soap caused a sudden, burning pain.

"Ow, dammit! When did this happen?"

Not sure who I was asking, I put the soap down and felt around the sore spot with my fingers. Beyond verifying that it was, indeed, uncomfortable, the examination didn't give me much additional information.

Finding wounds on my body that weren't supposed to be there had started to be a regular occurrence. It didn't take a psychic to figure out that the feeling of deja vu I experienced was because I'd been through this same routine just a few days earlier, thanks to Bryce.

I finished my shower, towelled off and grabbed a hand mirror from the top of the vanity.

Angling it so I could examine my nether regions, I touched a finger gingerly along the tender skin, but still couldn't make out anything in particular.

Maybe we'd just rubbed the poor little thing raw with our callisthenics.

When I pulled back the lip on one side, clearly visible were two not-so-tiny holes, floating in a sea of angry, red skin.

"What the hell?"

I reached over, opened the medicine cabinet above the sink, and retrieved the tube of antiseptic salve that I'd used for my last bite wound.

Dotting it carefully on the sore spots, I struggled to re­member any time during the night when Devereux had bitten anything but my neck.

I instinctively lifted my hand up to my throat, check­ing for evidence of what I clearly remembered, and felt only smooth skin. I raised the mirror, shifting around to display all sides, then shook my head.

Nothing. No sign of the sensuous neck nibble. Not even a red spot.

Either I'd blacked out and missed a very erotic chapter in our book of carnal knowledge, or something altogether dif­ferent had happened.

Then, as if someone turned on a movie, I remembered the last scene of the mountain dream. The labial feast.

"It was not a dream" floated through my mind in a familiar voice.

I jumped up and ran into my bedroom. "Devereux?"

"'We were in another dimension and I was careless. My heartfelt apologies, my love. I will heal your wound tonight."

"Dever—" I almost got his name out before I realized the voice was coming from inside my head. Or, at least I was pretty sure that no one else could hear it.

At least, not anyone I could see.

I'll never get used to this.

I paused for a moment, waiting for any remaining astral proclamations, but the voice was silent.

Well that's great. Now even my dreams leave scars.

I didn't know whether I was being open-minded or stu­pid, but one thing was certain.

Nothing surprised me anymore.

Well, almost nothing.

***

As soon as I stepped off the elevator at my office later that morning, I knew something was wrong. Not only did my intuitive radar system shoot off a warning, but my regular senses shifted into overdrive. I'd learned from experience not to ignore those kinds of signals.

I walked slowly down the short hallway between the ele­vators and my waiting room, steeling myself for what I'd find. That usually closed door was now open and there was a hor­rendous stench coming from my inner office.

I set my purse and briefcase against the wall opposite the entryway, gingerly pushed the waiting room door open with one finger, and discovered the main door was not only open, it was off its hinges, lying on the floor in front of my desk.

All the chairs and tables in the waiting area had been overturned, some were broken and everything was coated in a dark reddish-brown substance. On the wall someone had scrawled, in childish print in that same horrible color, "i will not suffer a witch to live," and "you will be washed in the blood."

As bad as that was, I knew it had only been the prelude to the main concerto.

Holding my breath, I stepped to the doorway of my office and surveyed the scene.

Compared to the condition of this larger room, the mess in the waiting area had been child's play. Perhaps that wasn't an inaccurate diagnosis of the perpetrator's developmental level.

I shuddered out the breath I'd been holding.

Someone had taken a knife—clearly a honking huge knife—to all the couches and chairs, slashing wide gashes through every cushion. Then, just to make sure the destruc­tion was complete, the furniture was tumbled and drizzled with more of that reddish-brown stain.

All the files in my locked file cabinet had been shredded and strewn around the room. Some appeared to have been partially burned, which explained one small portion of the odour. The metal file cabinet itself was oddly twisted, as if hands had pulled it apart.

The drawers in my desk had been opened and they, along with the top of the desk and my computer, were saturated with what could only be pools of blood.

The stunted artist hadn't spared the walls in this room either. On all four sides were scribbled various obscenities, threats, and a few things I vaguely noted as coming from religious sources.

Actually, I recognized everything that was written on the wall because I'd heard it all before.

Brother Luther had screamed every word of it at me in one of the enraged messages I'd saved in my voice mail system.

As astounding as the damage was in both rooms, I still couldn't figure out what the ghastly smell was.

Had Brother Luther broken into my office and left a dead animal? Excrement? If it had been him, he must be a very large, strong man. Or maybe he brought somebody with him. In any case, the destruction was violent, thorough, and personal. I wasn't sure how much good it would have done, but I should've told the police, or at least Alan, about the telephone threats right after they started. Maybe Brother Luther—if he really was responsible—had done something similar before. He might even have a police record. Hind­sight is always crystal clear.

I scanned the room again for the source of the smell and noticed that the door, which had been torn off its hinges, was lying strangely on the floor. Not flat, but at an angle, as if something was underneath.

My solar plexus tightened and my heart pounded. My brain treated me to a high-speed presentation of all the worst-case scenarios I could imagine.

I moved slowly and carefully through the debris, not wanting to disturb any more of the evidence than necessary, and knelt down near the dislodged door. A wave of nausea hit me. I lifted up one corner, which was all it took for me to discover the source of the smell.

A slender, young male was underneath. He was deathly white, clearly no longer alive, and drenched in blood.

I guessed he'd been there for several hours.

Startled, I pushed the door off of him and jumped when it bumped into a still upright end table, sending the lamp that had miraculously survived the onslaught crashing to the floor.

I was still staring at the unidentified young man when I heard someone gasp.

"Dr. Knight! What happened? Are you okay? Oh, my gawd! That's Eric!"

I turned so quickly I lost my balance and went down hard on my butt in a puddle of thick blood.

Midnight and Ronald had scheduled another joint ap­pointment and they were right on time.

We all stared at each other for a few endless seconds, and then Ronald stepped forward, offering his hand.

"Let me help you up, Dr. Knight."

Midnight had locked both hands over her mouth and stood rigid, eyes wide.

I accepted Ronald's help to stand, and moved away from the young man Midnight had identified as Eric. The appren­tice who'd crafted the little knives for blood swapping.

After helping me up, Ronald went back to Midnight. He put his arm around her and stroked her hair, but she didn't respond.

I noticed a fine trembling in her body. One of the first signs of shock.

"Ronald, would you help Midnight out to the hallway, please? I need to go out there and make some phone calls."

I kept my voice as calm and normal as possible.

He understood what I hadn't said, nodded and pushed Midnight gently in the direction of the door, holding her by the shoulders to keep her from stumbling or tripping over the chaos on the floor.

Once out of direct sight of her friend's body, Midnight lowered her hands away from her mouth and cried silently, her head on Ronald's shoulder.