The air held a gentle fragrance, a combination of incense and herbs.
On one side of the room was a large, antique bed, with bright-colored bedding.
I had expected the bed to be our destination, and I felt both nervous and excited about the prospect. But to my surprise, Devereux guided me to the other end of the room, where there were shelves and tables full of strange bottles, odd substances, and peculiar items. In addition, there were candles of every color, shape, and size. Further along the wall was an artist's easel, many canvases, and paint supplies.
Devereux walked over to the easel. "I want you to know me." He held out his hand.
I joined him at the easel and let my eyes take in the beautiful scene of a sunrise that was partially completed. He pointed to the rising sun in the picture. "Perhaps we all want what we cannot have?"
"All these paintings are yours? You're an artist?"
He nodded.
I moved around the room, closely inspecting the paintings hanging on each wall. There was a mix of breathtaking outdoor scenes alongside portraits of people dressed in clothing from other centuries. As amazing and etheric as the landscape scenes were, the portraits were even more spectacular. It was as if he'd captured the essence of each person's soul and added that mystical element to the final painting in some magical way.
"They're beautiful. You're very talented."
He bowed. "I have had a very long time to practice"
One painting in particular drew me and I walked over to stand before it. The woman in the picture had the same hair and eyes as Devereux. She was dressed in a flowing white gown, which reminded me of an angel. Around her neck was an exquisite pentagram on a silver chain.
"That was my mother," he said, coming to stand beside me.
I noted the "was" in his statement. "I'm sorry. Did you lose her recently?"
He turned to me and smiled, "No. She died very long ago, but I still miss her. She taught me everything I know. She was a powerful woman."
He walked back over to the shelves and tables of unusual things.
"What's all the stuff in the bottles? What do you do with all those candles?" I asked, moving back over to explore the strange objects.
He followed me. "Magic."
"Magic? You mean magic tricks, like a magician?"
He pivoted to stand in front of me and met my eyes with his.
"They are not tricks, but yes, magician is one of the names those such as myself have been called throughout the ages. We are also referred to as magus, shaman, or wizard. I have a particular fondness for the title wizard because it honors the lineage I come from—the same roots as the great wizard Merlin."
I chuckled. "Merlin? You mean the fairy tale about King Arthur and all that?"
His expression remained serious, which surprised me and made me anxious. I nervously studied his collection of New Age paraphernalia on the nearby table.
"Ah, my dear Kismet. As a psychologist, you should know that all fairy tales contain a grain of truth. The actual stories of Merlin are not commonly known. But he was, indeed, a great Master.
"I do not expect you to believe everything—or perhaps even anything—that I will share with you, but I do ask that you keep an open mind. I want you to know why I am so drawn to you.
"Long before I became a nightwalker—"
I looked up from the crystal ball I was gazing into. "A nightwalker?" I interrupted.
"A vampire, the undead, an immortal."
I took a breath, preparing to ask more questions, but he held up a hand to stop me. "Please. Let me finish."
I nodded and picked up a colorful, crystal-encrusted wand.
"Since my human birth, I was schooled in the art and craft of magic. Generations of my family had apprenticed themselves to the witches and wizards who came before. The skills and abilities of each ancestor were passed along the bloodline. By the time the gifts came down to me, they were extremely potent."
He clasped his hands behind his back and paced to and fro, as if he was delivering a speech. I followed him with my eyes.
"In addition to my talents in the realm of the magical arts, I also inherited artistic abilities, which revealed themselves very early. It was not long before my ability to see the future blended with my love of painting to give me a very powerful way to express the prophecies and visions I could sense in my deepest mind. I became a seer."
He strode over to a large wooden cabinet and opened the wide double doors. Inside were scores of painted canvases, lined up like dominoes next to each other. He reached in and selected one particular canvas and drew it out of the cabinet, holding it carefully along the edge.
He carried the painting back to me, turned it around for me to see and held it up with both hands.
I gasped, staring. It was a portrait of me.
"Devereux! That's so beautiful. When did you have time to paint this? How could you have memorized my face so perfectly in the short time I've known you?"
I stood, speechless, taking in the details of the portrait. As I examined the exquisite artwork, something began to tug at my consciousness. Something was odd about this painting. I couldn't quite put my finger on what it was, until it rolled over me like a wave.
Suddenly, I felt tense.
"My necklace. You've never seen this necklace. In fact, this is the first time I've ever put it on, yet, it's in the picture. How can that be? And my blue blouse. How could you have painted me as I look tonight?"
He propped the canvas on an easel. "When I created this portrait, I did not know the woman in the picture or why I was compelled to adorn her with that particular piece of jewellery. As I always did when I am in the midst of a prophetic vision, I simply painted what I saw. But unlike the other visions that had been born on my canvases, this one would not release me after the image was complete. The woman in the portrait haunted me. She filled my dreams until I was sure I would go mad. She spoke to me in my mind and repeated one word over and over again."
He pointed to some writing at the bottom of the painting and I leaned in to read it.
Kismet
"I thought the word meant the woman in the painting was my fate. My destiny. I waited patiently for her to find me, and after a time, I put the painting away. And it has been locked away until now."
He closed the distance between us, his hands on my upper arms.
"It was not a word at all. It was a name. Your name."
I shook my head, searching the depths of his eyes for some clue to what he was talking about.
"I don't understand. Are you saying you didn't paint this recently?"
"Yes." When did you paint it?" Over 800 years ago."
Chapter Twelve
It was official. Like Elvis, my brain had definitely left the building.
At some point during the last few hours I'd apparently fallen through the Looking Glass. I didn't have a map of Wonderland, and nothing in my previous experience or education prepared me to deal with the strange, parallel universe I'd landed in.
Had someone slipped LSD into my Bloody Mary?
There I was, in the nether regions of Dracula's castle, staring at a gorgeous, self-proclaimed immortal who insisted he'd painted my portrait 800 years ago, and I couldn't find the instruction manual to put the pieces together. I couldn't even find the box the damn thing came in.
Devereux seemed to have that effect on me. One minute I was ready to rip my clothes off, leap into his arms and lose myself in a frenzy of body parts; and the next minute I rocketed between shocked horror, mind-numbing confusion, and righteous anger. My brain just wasn't equipped for that kind of neurochemical rollercoaster ride.
Then all hell broke loose.
I heard loud, angry voices out in the corridor and frantic pounding on the outer door to Devereux's office. Evidently, the villagers with lit torches had arrived.
"Master! Master! Come quickly. They're back and they've got Luna."
Devereux shoved the painting at me and ordered, "Stay here.'' He moved so quickly through the opening in the wall of books that my eyes registered only a blur.
He must have opened the outer door, because a cacophony of chaotic, fearful voices filled the air before the door clicked shut again and I was left in eerie silence.
Stay here? I seriously didn't think so.
I slanted another glance at the portrait and put it back into the cabinet. No matter when it had been painted, it was clearly high quality. Devereux was a talented artist. What was it with me? Why did I have to fall for brilliant men who were either egomaniacs, crazy, or both?
I walked out of Devereux's secret room and crossed his main office area, heading for the door to the hallway. The closer I drew, the louder the sounds became. I put my fingers on the handle, and gently pushed down, easing the door inward, until I could poke my head out and view the area directly in front of the entrance. I half expected to find a guard standing there, another of Devereux's motorcycle gang thralls, who would keep me in my luxurious holding cell. But this end of the hallway was empty.
Judging by the noise level, all the action was happening further up the corridor, in the area behind the velvet curtains. The sounds of crashing furniture, blood-curdling screams, Darth Vader-like rumblings, and screechings that had to be a demonic choir rehearsing the Satanic Mass for the Dead assailed my ears. Something unpleasantly red oozed out along the floor in front of that entry way.
The only way out of the basement was to pass the vampire-wannabe circus carrying on behind curtain No.1.
I tiptoed up the hallway and stood with my back pressed to the wall, next to the entrance to the insane asylum. I peeked in long enough to figure out that all the people—if people was the right word—crammed into the room were locked in combat with willing and enthusiastic partners. The last thing I saw before I sprinted toward the stairs leading back up to the main floor was Devereux and Bryce, fangs bared, hair flying, levitating a couple of feet above the ground, clutching each others necks.
That was it for me.
The volume of noise swallowed my unintended scream, and I bolted away from the totally unbelievable up into the merely improbable.
I ran up the stairs like I was being chased by the Hounds of Hell, pushed through the door where John the biker, the vampire addict, had abandoned his post, and I smashed into Alan's chest. I screamed, instinctively tried to push away. He grabbed my upper arms, holding me against him. I was shaking so hard my earrings rattled.
"Kismet! I've been searching all over for you. What the hell's going on here? What's all that noise down there? What happened to you?"
"They're fighting."
"Who's fighting? I'd better get down there . . ." He started to pull away.
I grabbed his arms. "No. Trust me. You don't want to go down there. I don't know if this place really is filled with vampires or not, but I can say for sure that everybody is certifiably crazy. After what I saw, you wouldn't last five minutes. Please, I want to find Tom and go home."
Okay. I'll call the locals while you find Tom."
“No! Devereux wouldn't want you to bring the police into this. Let's just go."
Alan tipped his head to the side and cocked a brow. "Devereux wouldn't, would he? And how would you know that?'
"I'll tell you all about it—all of it. But right now just get me out of here."
His eyes bored into mine, and he nodded. Either I was sufficiently crazed looking and he'd decided to humor me, or he'd read deeper between the lines and got that my terror was authentic. I could at least admit to myself I'd never dealt well with violent psychotics, and everything about what I'd seen in the basement triggered my worst nightmares.
He collected both my hands in his and stared into my eyes.
"Okay. Just breathe. We'll find Tom. You go check out the dance floor and I'll see if he's ogling the bartender again. Let's meet outside in five minutes."
I nodded in relief, pulled my hands free and started off toward the crowded dance floor. I took a few steps and turned back to yell at Alan to hurry, and saw him leap through the doorway to the basement. I should've known he'd have to be a one-man cavalry; an FBI agent, first and foremost. I filed away for future use the fact that he'd stared right into my eyes and lied to me.
Now more pissed than frightened, I stomped off in search of Tom. Alan could splash around in the madness if he wanted to, but I was going to find Tom, catch a cab and get the hell outta there. The further removed I got from everything that had happened downstairs, the more the idea of drugs in my drink began to seem reasonable.
I wandered around the club for several minutes, even going so far as to stand in front of the men's room, sneaking peeks inside whenever the door opened. That got me a lot of unwanted attention, suggestive comments, and lascivious invitations. But what it didn't get me was a glimpse of Tom.
And, come to think of it, I hadn't seen Zoe either.
One good thing about being tall to begin with and wearing high heels was the elevated altitude. From my lofty vantage point, I was able to scan over the heads of half the blissed-out partiers and save myself from unnecessary body jostling.
If Tom was in the club, he had to be under a table somewhere, because there was no sign of him standing or sitting anywhere. And Alan hadn't emerged from the supernatural testosterone-fest below, so I was on my own. That was fine. I was used to being on my own.
It suddenly occurred to me that Tom might have gone outside, so I strode purposefully toward the front door and noticed the cadaverous bouncer was missing in action. I pushed through the heavy door leading out into the fresh night air and stood for a moment, coughing, as my lungs made it clear that I wouldn't be getting off so easy after spending an evening breathing in the chemical spewing of a fog machine.