"Yeah, well don't count on it ever happening again. I think the sooner he tires of you, the better. But I told him I'd come to your house and that I'd ring the damn doorbell, so here I am. He can't give me any more grief about you."
Luna's distaste for humans, and me in particular, was well known.
I nodded. "And to what do I owe this honor?"
"You've got that right. I have a message from the Master. He has serious business he must attend to tonight and he won't be able to see you. But he said he'll visit your dreams and explain. He said I had to tell you that you're in danger and not to let anyone remove your protective necklace." What does he mean, I'm in danger?" Hey, I just deliver the messages. I don't explain them. But I will tell you that something's up. Vampires are swarming into Denver in droves. Some of them make even us tough vamps nervous. Something dark and heavy is in the air, so to speak."
"Where's Devereux?" I asked.
She glared at me. "Not that it's any of your miserable human business, but he's off on some kind of inter-dimensional rescue mission. He's always saving somebody." She pursed her lips and brought her face closer to mine. "He simply can't resist a hard-luck case."
Her lips relaxed into a wicked smile, displaying fully descended fangs. "But who knows? You might get snatched away by the Dark One again and I won't have to hear about you anymore. Wouldn't that be great?"
She laughed and vanished.
I was never sure what to make of her attitude toward me. Clearly she didn't have much use for me, but I knew she'd follow Devereux's orders. I was sure she wouldn't hurt me. Probably.
Leave it to Devereux to choose a pissed off beauty queen for his personal assistant. No bug-eating, rotted-tooth Renfield for him.
I was still standing in the entryway with my hand on the open door. I poked my head outside and was relieved to find nothing. No one screaming questions, no bright lights, no car tracks on my grass.
I locked the door and went back to my desk.
The next task on my list was to contact all my clients, cancel or reschedule any appointments set for the next couple of days and assure them I'd be functioning again as quickly as possible.
I spoke with all but a handful and left general messages for the ones I hadn't reached, asking them to contact me.
Rubbing the back of my neck to ease the tight muscles, I shuffled over to my comfortable chair, found the remote control and clicked through the channels, searching for mindless entertainment.
I landed on a well-known national discussion program. The show's host was an abrasive, politically dogmatic, argumentative bully who only had guests to give him someone to shout over. I usually didn't have much time for television, and this show was particularly worth avoiding, but something about the topic caught my attention.
A diverse panel was talking about the end of the world. Normally, discussions about that topic have a decidedly religious flavor and don't appeal to me, but this group seemed to be comprised of all kinds of people: scientists, psychics, spiritual leaders, law enforcement officials, and politicians. Quite an unexpected amalgam of opinions.
An old, white-haired woman on the panel moved to the podium and spoke. "The world is being contaminated by a growing darkness. A cumulative negative energy so strong that it's eliciting the worst from all the earth's inhabitants. The idea that thoughts and emotions hold certain vibrations is no longer speculation. According to the Law of Attraction, like attracts like, and we are witnessing clear evidence of that all over the world today."
Where had I heard that before? It seemed so familiar. Then I remembered. Cerridwyn the Tarot reader had said almost exactly the same thing.
I hadn't realized the end of the world had become sucha hot topic.
I listened to the panel's discussion, waiting for the voices of ridicule and condescension that usually follow such proclamations, but none came. Everyone on the panel had a unique aspect of this "growing darkness" to share.
My ears perked up when they mentioned Denver as one of the cities on the leading edge of the escalating negativity.
According to a dark-skinned man wearing a turban, unexplained deaths and all forms of violence had increased in these cities at a higher rate than the national average.
They devoted the next few minutes to comparing ideas about why those certain cities and areas of the country had become the focus of evil, and decided it had to do with a psychic build-up of toxic human emotions: hate, fear, blame, guilt, rage, shame—conditions that prepared the ground for increased violence, manipulation, intolerance, control, and destruction.
The white-haired woman explained, "Peoples' focus on fear, hatred, and violence has caused a greater vibrational accumulation of those emotions in places across the country where powerful concentrations of hopeful, optimistic, and enlightening energy also exists. In other words, everything and its opposite is increasing in these locations.
"We are called to make a choice between love, compassion, and tolerance and hate, fear, and war. A true archetypal Armageddon."
The discussion sounded so New Age, I was shocked by the host's uncharacteristic lack of reaction. Strange. I'd never heard him be polite with anyone before. I guessed his behavior was as clear an indication of the impending end of the world as anything. Or maybe hell had frozen over.
I thought about the reading Cerridwyn gave me and all the weird things that had happened since then. I was no longer the same person who had concrete answers about what was and wasn't real. Maybe I should go and visit her again.
Wow. Did I just seriously consider going to a psychic on purpose?
The program went to commercial and a group of children in costumes screamed "Trick or Treat!" as an advertisement for Halloween candy filled the screen.
Halloween? Was it Halloween already? I didn't even know what day of the month it was, although I'd vaguely been aware it was October. Today was the 30th, so tomorrow was Halloween.
I loved Halloween as a child. It didn't take a psychologist to figure out what metaphor I was acting out by dressing up as a princess every year. Damn those Disney fairy tales!
In graduate school, I studied Samhain, the old pagan holiday that predated our current, consumer-driven observance. Samhain celebrated the time of year when the veil between the worlds was most transparent—when magic was afoot.
Unfortunately, our culture had become suspicious of true magic and had shrouded the holiday in fear, superstition, and nonsense. I'd attended a Wiccan coven's ritual once and walked around hearing peoples' thoughts again for a week afterward. Powerful stuff.
I read something in the newspaper recently about a big party or gathering on Halloween. A yearly event. Not that I intended to go. My life was bizarre enough without adding more occult madness.
A sudden pain shot across my forehead and my solar plexus seized.
The light bulbs in both the overhead fixture and the table lamp simultaneously exploded, leaving the room illuminated by the eerie glow of the large TV screen.
"Harlot! Whore!"
The screeching voice from behind me startled me so badly I leaped out of the chair and landed on top of the coffee table, knocking over my glass of wine.
Creeping toward me, circling in front of the table I crouched on, was an emaciated-looking male.
The sunken cheeks of his white, cadaverous face appeared blue in the shadowy light, and his floor-length, black coat hung loosely on his tall, wiry frame.
His head was a luminous egg. Hairless with crisscrossing veins.
His coal black eyes were rimmed with swollen red tissue, something foul and thick oozing from the corners.
He looked like an experiment gone wrong. A body in search of its grave.
He pointed a finger at me, the elongated fingernail ragged and stained. He clutched a huge, battered black book in his other arm.
He snarled, displaying yellow and brown teeth. And fangs. I recognized the southern drawl from the phone calls.
Is this Brother Luther? He's a vampire?
The degree to which I'd missed the boat blew me away.
He screeched, "Evil Jezebel! You will burn in eternal damnation! Consorting with Satan's minions!"
His breath was horrible, reeking like a sewer. It provided nauseating contrast to the rancid odor watting from his clothing.
I scanned the area, weighing my options and the distance to the nearest phone, then leapt off the table, landing as far away from him as possible.
There wasn't any way I was going to make eye contact with him, so I focused on his nose, which was a mass of bumps, missing skin and odd angles.
"Are you Brother Luther? What do you want?" I asked, using my least threatening therapy voice, my heart running a marathon.
As if he hadn't heard my question, he continued slinging vile epithets. He stared at me with his glassy dark eyes, tiny droplets of spit flying as he ranted.
Shit! What the hells going on? How could this be Brother Luther? I thought he hated vampires.
Simultaneously, I reached for the cordless phone and he reached for me.
I grabbed the phone, managed to punch in 91, then lost my grip on it when he jerked me by the fabric of my blouse.
My eyes watered as he held me close to his face. It was almost impossible to breathe while being bathed in the noxious stink radiating from his mouth.
I pushed against him and had the clear impression that my wrists would break before I'd budge him an inch.
He was staring at me but his eyes were unfocused.
My bowels threatened to liquefy and I fought to turn my head to get away from the worst of it.
"She must be punished," he bellowed in my face, gathering more of my shirt in his grasp.
His head suddenly jerked down, his vacant eyes locked on something he now held in his palm.
He screamed as the necklace Devereux had given me lit up the room, burning his hand. He dropped his book, released me, and I fell to the floor. I speed-crawled a few feet away from him and slowly stood.
Evidently the necklace had done more than scorch him, because he put both hands on his bald dome and whimpered in a weak, shaky voice, "Don't hurt me, don't hurt me, please don't hurt me, help me, help me . . ."
Something about his words reminded me of the dream I'd had about the child in the house. Lowering his arms, he clutched his stomach and rocked up and down, sobbing loudly. I became momentarily confused and almost made a move to comfort him.
Suddenly he jerked upright, rose to his full height, which seemed taller than before, and held his arms out on either side of him. He closed his eyes and slowly let his head drop back, his mouth falling open.
It wasn't possible, but it looked like the coat that had hung loosely on him moments before, now stretched taut across his chest, shoulders, and upper arms.
As he'd spread his arms out, the coat flapped open, exposing his scarred, festering nude frame. His chest was a mass of oozing sores, surrounded by coarse, filthy body hair, which trailed down to a thick patch sprouting a huge, reddish erection.
His head snapped up, like a spring had been released, and the black coals in his eyes ignited into flames. He eased his hand down his abscessed stomach, grasped his penis and began stroking the length, groaning. He smiled the worst smile I've ever seen, and stepped toward me, unoccupied hand outstretched.
"Come to me. Touch me."
He thrust his foul erection toward me and laughed, his voice burrowing holes in my ears, making my knees weak.
I backed as far away from him as I could.
What just happened? What is this thing? Why does his voice seem familiar? Where's his southern accent? Why does he look different? He obviously did something to cause me to believe he's physically bigger than he'd been just a few moments ago. Some mind control thing
He began moving the hand on his penis faster and was momentarily distracted by what I guessed was an approaching orgasm. I didn't want to be standing in front of him when he got to that point.
I dropped to the ground, crawled toward the front door as fast as my legs would carry me and cringed when I heard him scream his release. The cry sounded more like pain than pleasure. Immediately I felt myself being lifted up by the waistband of the orange pants.
That hideous laugh washed over me again and I was just wondering if my death would be quick and painless or drawn out and torturous, when the front door burst open and a whole flock of vampires swept into the room.
Several of them leaped on my captor, causing me to be flung against a wall, where I sat, semi-dazed, watching my vampire cavalry be thrown around like sponge toys.
What the hell is going on? Is he some kind of vampire demon?
Brother Luther, if it really was Brother Luther, seemed to be able to control vampires, as well as humans, with his mind, but there were too many for him. Or else he simply lost interest. Because he threw down the hulking vampire whose neck he was sucking on, turned his red eyes to me and shrieked, "Soon."
He either disappeared or moved so quickly there wasn't even a blur, but one minute he was there, the next he wasn't.
The vampires lay around the room, scattered like bowling pins after a strike.
The silence was broken by a deep male voice saying, "Get the f**k off me," as a short, rotund man sprang up.
I didn't recognize any of the blood-covered warriors, except one. The last one I expected to see.
Still in shock, I crawled over to a woman sprawled out on the floor between the living room and the kitchen. Her long black hair was matted with blood from several head wounds and two large holes gaped at the top of her left breast where fangs had torn the skin. The wounds were already beginning to heal.
"Luna? Is that you?"
"No, it's the Avon lady. Are you always this dim?"