The Vampire Shrink(9)
Author: Lynda Hilburn

I hadn't even begun to think about whether or not I should report the attack to the police. There was the confidential­ity issue to consider. Bryce was connected to Midnight, and I couldn't involve her, but if I pressed charges, she'd probably be dragged in.

But I was definitely moving my office to a building with security—cameras, doormen, the whole deal. No more un­invited visitors.

I finished my shower, stepped out and wrapped myself in a thick, extra large towel. Enjoying the warm feeling, I went over to the mirror, wiped away a patch of fog, and checked out the wound on my neck.

"Damn! What the hell?"

I stared at the carnage. There were two blatant, swol­len holes surrounded by a sea of red with purple and yellow blotches. It looked as if I'd been ravaged by some kind of wild dog or something.

I opened the medicine cabinet, rummaged around for my antiseptic salve, and read the label to see if it said any­thing about being an effective defense against human germs. I remembered reading something about the germs in a hu­man's mouth being worse than anything else. I hoped that wasn't true.

Anti-bacterial? Well, I guess that's better than nothing. I wonder if there's an anti-vampire-wannabe medicine? An analgesic to ward off those pesky undead cooties? I probably should get a tetanus shot, at the very least. Yeah. Here I am, thinking about this as if it's just another day at the office. Maniacs "R" Us.

I dotted some of the medicine on the wound and held an inner debate about the merits of covering it versus letting it breathe. Breathing won. For now.

Touching the bite mark reminded me of Devereux's tongue sliding over my neck, and I had a pleasant body rush. Then I remembered the feel of his lips and noticed my nip­ples were hard and the area between my thighs grew warm and wet. I took a quick ride down Possibility Lane as I imag­ined how it would be to feel his hand there.

The human mind really is resilient. What am I thinking about while patching up the leftovers of my very own psychotic Bela Lugosi's munch-fest on my neck? Sex. Sex with Devereux. I definitely didn't get enough sleep.

Still tingling from the mental afterglow, I towelled my hair, sprayed it with a super anti-tangle concoction and flipped my head over so that my hair hung down in a thick curtain in front of me. I picked through it with my wide-tooth comb, snarling as I struggled with the clumps of hair that refused to play nice.

I stopped, mid-pick, when a simple realization washed over me. It finally penetrated my sleep-clogged brain that I could have told Agent Stevens I was unavailable and would see him at my office later. I could have continued snooz­ing in my warm bed. I definitely knew better than to make any decisions before I've had my caffeine fix. Apparently, the events of the previous night plus the demonic nightmare caused me to have an even more intense case of fuzz brain.

The annoyance of my obvious act of stupidity caused me to fling my head back up with such momentum that the weight of my hair almost gave me a whiplash.

"Ouch! Dammit!"

I strode into my bedroom and flung open the door to my walk-in closet, knocking a picture off the wall.

Okay. Temper tantrum accomplished. Next?

I climbed into my favorite baggy jeans and a University of Colorado T-shirt and headed down to the kitchen, fanta­sizing about that first cup of nirvana.

After I started the Mr. Coffee, I checked my office voice mail to see if Emerald had left a message. She hadn't.

***

I was pouring my first cup of coffee when Agent Stevens knocked on my door. I didn't usually get up that early, but every time I did, I was reminded of how much I love watch­ing the sun come up. There's that wonderful feeling of a new beginning, of endless possibilities. And this morning, in particular, I appreciated the beauty, light, and warmth of the dawn.

I let him in, stood for a moment in the open doorway, watching the light reclaim the sky and enjoying the early fall breeze, and I jumped when he spoke.

"Hey, Earth to Dr. Knight? Where do you keep your coffee mugs?"

I glared at my visitor, who was making himself quite at home. He wandered around the kitchen, opened every cup­board and drawer and then parked himself in front of my open refrigerator. "Holy cow. There's nothing in here but take-out food. Don't you know how to cook? There isn't even any milk for my coffee."

Is this guy for real?

Waking me up before the crack of dawn was bad enough, but inviting himself over and having an opinion about the state of my refrigerator was over the top. My head was pounding and I simply had no patience for dealing with this arrogant cop. If it hadn't been for my concern about Emer­ald, I'd have kicked his tight little butt right out the door.

But the longer I studied him, the more the wind leaked out of my anger sails. He looked exhausted—as if he hadn't been to bed yet. He was either wearing the same clothes I'd seen him in at the hospital, or he had a collection of jeans and rumpled white T-shirts. His eyelids drooped slightly, the purple-blue of his eyes seemed less vibrant and his hair was a monument to what happens when you use your fingers as a comb.

Come on, Kismet Don't go getting all warm and gooey now be­cause the guy's worn out This is a professional consultation. No caretaking allowed.

"Sit down, Special Agent Stevens." He eased his long frame into one of my kitchen chairs. I poured us each a mug of coffee, carried them over to the table, and joined him.

"You can call me Alan, doc."

I pulled another clump of my hair over my shoulder, making sure it still covered the ghastly souvenir on my neck. "Well, Alan, how can I help you?"

"'Why are you counseling vampires? Don't you know how dangerous that is?"

And to think that for the past thirty years I doubt if I heard the word "vampire" more than ten times, and now everyone I talk to seems obsessed with it.

I shook my head. "Dangerous? What's dangerous about helping people free themselves from a destructive delusion?"

He paused. "That's the second time you've said something that leads me to believe you don't know what kind of tiger you've got by the tail. Are you seriously telling me you think vampires are delusions? You really don't see the big picture?"

Oh, please. Im not awake enough for this. I can't believe an FBI guy is talking about vampires.

"Can I see your identification again, Agent Stevens?"

He pulled his picture ID out of his pocket and handed it to me, smiling. "You think there's something fishy about an FBI agent talking about vampires?"

I inspected the ID. It appeared authentic, but I really had no way of knowing.

"You read my mind, Agent Stevens."

"No, I read your face, Dr. Knight."

I handed his ID back to him. "Don't FBI agents usually work in pairs? Where's your partner, Agent Stevens?"

He grinned. "I'm temporarily between partners. I seem to be an acquired taste. My partners keep asking for trans­fers. If you're nervous about whether I'm who I say I am, you can call the local police. They know all about me and what I'm doing here. So, will you answer my question now? Why are you working with vampires?"

My neck was throbbing and my patience was gone. The good feeling I'd gotten from the hot shower was retreating at the speed of light.

"Special Agent Stevens, I didn't get up this early to dis­cuss fairy tales or cartoon characters, and unless there is some aspect of psychology that I can help you with, I think we're finished."

"Wow. You really don't know. I figured when I saw your ad in the paper that you knew what you were dealing with, but you're flying blind. You're messing with things you don't understand and somebody needs to enlighten you. It might as well be me."

"I don't think that's necessary." I sighed and stood.

He grabbed my wrist. "Wait. Please. Hear me out. I think you'll be intrigued by what I have to say."

Please? I stared into his watery, bloodshot eyes and saw what appeared to be sincerity. Or maybe it was simply ex­haustion. Something about the determined set of his jaw and his easy smile convinced me to sit back down at the table. "I'm listening"

He let go of me. "First, let me give you a little back­ground, to show you that I didn't start out as a believer, either. You and I actually have a lot in common, because I have a Ph.D. in Psychology, too."

My eyebrows winged up, and my mouth formed into an "O." He saw the surprise on my face. "Yeah, Doctor Stevens at your service. But I never intended to be a therapist. My in­terests lie with the criminal mind. So when I was recruited by the FBI's Behavioural Psych unit—think Silence of the Lambs—I jumped at the chance to become a profiler. I specialize in cases that have paranormal elements. Yep, I can see by the gleam in your eyes that you're drawing comparisons between my work and a certain television program. It's true. Some clever coworker or another is always putting X-Files posters on my door, and my official nickname is Mulder."

So, Special Agent Stevens isn't your normal FBI agent Interesting.

I had to laugh. I'd enjoyed that program and Agent Mulder's dry, sarcastic sense of humor. Of course, I fancied myself to be more like Scully.

I sipped my coffee. "I'm impressed. So, what's a profiler like yourself doing in my kitchen wanting to enlighten me about vampires?" I had to admit that thinking of him as a colleague rather than only a cop was making him even more attractive to me. I was a sucker for a clever mind wrapped in a handsome package.

He relaxed back in the chair and stretched like a cat. The white T-shirt material molded to his chest muscles and accented the outlines of his ni**les. Very distracting.

He saw me notice and smiled.

"About a year ago, I started tracking a pattern. Dead bodies showing up with holes in their necks, drained of blood. At first I did just what you're doing: I wrote it off to some cre­ative form of mental illness. I assumed I was searching for one predator who moved around a lot, or maybe a copy-cat murderer who was picking up on the vampire theme. And, as I suspect you've done, I did research on everything involv­ing blood drinking."

He downed the last of his coffee, carried his mug over to the pot, poured himself a refill and returned to the table.

Why, yes, thank you. Id love some more coffee.

He drummed his fingers on the side of his mug. "I showed up at the murder scenes, checking for similarities, and the cases just kept getting weirder. Some of the bod­ies had multiple bites that the lab results showed came from different sets of sharp teeth. No human or animal DNA in the wounds. But there were never any signs of struggle—no needle marks for drugs. It was as if the victims simply lay there and let themselves be drained. Almost like some form of hypnosis or brainwashing."

He stopped talking, scanned the kitchen and pointed to a bag of cookies on the counter.

"You mind? I haven't had any breakfast yet."

Without waiting for my response, he got up, fetched the bag of cookies, and returned to his seat.

"Help yourself." I wondered if he was always this comfortable with strangers or if he was simply oblivious.­

No, Im sure. Oblivious.

"Then something happened to turn me into a believer," he continued. "I was in Los Angeles, following through on some leads about the latest murders, and I was attacked by a vampire."

He saw me tighten my lips and raise my eyebrows, and he said, "Let me finish. I know this pushes all your 'this guy needs therapy' buttons, but hang in there with me." He opened the cookie bag, selected one and took a bite.

He scooted to the edge of his chair and excitedly pointed his finger up in the air and brought it down in a quick dive toward the floor. "I saw this thing fly down—I kid you not— from the roof of a 12-story building. He landed in front of me as if he'd just stepped off someone's front porch. Not a hair ruffled. He came at me, with his teeth bared and these long, sharp canines, picked me up by my neck, like I weighed nothing, and threw me down on the ground. He was on me so fast I didn't have time to be afraid. I started shouting ques­tions at him—asking him to tell me about himself. For some astounding reason, he stepped back and started answering. At the risk of being boringly unoriginal, it really was an in­terview with a vampire."

It sounds as if poor Special Agent Stevens is missing a few of his marbles.

I bit the inside of my mouth to keep myself from smiling. "What did this vampire tell you?"

Alan raised an eyebrow, tilted his head, and mentally dis­sected the expression on my face to determine whether I was being serious or sarcastic. He must have decided my question was on the level.

"That's a very long conversation for another day, but what's important is that my education was vastly expanded. He gave me a graduate course in the strange and impossible. I think I must have connected with him at exactly the right time, because he was willing to spill all the vampire secrets. Actually, I think he was suicidal. Maybe I should refer him to you for therapy?"

He ate another cookie.

I shot him a frosty look. "Okay. Let me get this straight. You're honestly trying to get me to believe that there are such things as vampires—preternatural, blood drinking ghouls— living among us. That they aren't only myths or psychotic humans?"

He leaned over and stared into my eyes. "That's exactly what I'm telling you.

And I'm prepared to put my money where my mouth is. I can show you. I think the vampires have Emerald Addison. There's a coven in one of the clubs downtown—a former church—called The Crypt. The vampire I talked to—Ian, who's probably back in London now—told me that the group and their leader have been here for a long time and they keep a low profile. But recently some new bloodsuckers—the ones I'm pursuing—have come to town and they're killers. Ian said that the one he's most afraid of is called Bryce."