“So, I still don’t understand how hanging out with Zoë has made you want to die. That’s what really happens, you know. It isn’t usually glamorous or romantic. You’d be dead. A corpse. A blood drinker …”
“Yeah, I get it.” He paused and studied me. “Is that really how you think of Devereux? As a corpse? Or are you just giving me your therapist spiel?”
I had to think for a few seconds. Devereux was unique in ways that had nothing to do with vampirism—all that magical mysticism and Druid ancestry. “No. I guess I don’t think of him that way, but it’s still the reality for most. And if I didn’t mention that particular set of truths to my clients, I’d be lying. From what little I know about the process, it isn’t as if a new vampire simply springs forth with powers and ancient knowledge. All that stuff comes with time. Sometimes decades—centuries. And unless a powerful vampire does the turning, a newbie could spend eternity as someone’s flunky. Does that sound appealing to you?”
He gave me his best nefarious grin. “Not in the least. That’s why I’m here to sign up with the most powerful vampire there is. If Devereux brings me over, I’ll be in the top percentage of vampires.”
“The top percentage of vampires?” I hooted out a laugh. “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard you say, and you’ve given me lots to compare it to. If you think being a vampire is just another lifestyle choice, you’re a bigger ass than I thought. Is this some kind of competition to you? Some kind of undead award you’re after? Being a member of an exclusive club? What has Zoë been telling you? Why would you think Devereux would participate in such a thing?”
His face fell, as if he’d momentarily abandoned his performance. “I’m getting old, Kismet.”
I felt my eyebrows rise and my shoulders slump. “What?” I knew he was fixated on staying young, but he was only eight years older than me. Not old by any rational standard.
“I’m not even forty yet and I have wrinkles.” He shook his head. “My plastic surgeon said I’ve already had too many procedures for someone my age and that my skin is sun damaged. He refuses to operate on me and says if I go to another doctor, I’ll end up looking like one of those scary plastic-surgery-gone-wrong types who don’t even appear human anymore. My career is just starting to come together, and I live in la-la land, where we worship youth and beauty. Zoë says if I come over now, I’ll stay as I am forever. Maybe even gain a little youth in the process. I could at least be a star for a few years before they notice I’m not aging.”
I realized my mouth had been hanging open, so I closed it. “Wait a minute. What about the famous, good-ol’-boy television psychologist? The current media darling who was mentored into fame and fortune? He’s no spring chicken, plus he’s chubby and losing his hair. He hasn’t built his empire on his physical appearance. Why are you so paranoid? Have you considered that it might be a good thing to appear old and wise?”
He sprang out of the chair and paced around the kitchen, no longer making eye contact. “Old and wise won’t work for the project I just pitched to cable. It’s an edgy reality program for an adult audience. I’d be counseling people, but not in a talk show format.”
I watched him march back and forth across the room. “Well, if not a talk show, what would it be?”
He mumbled something under his breath.
“What did you say? I didn’t hear you.”
He paused in front of me, crossed his arms over his chest, and cleared his throat. “Everything’s tentative right now—my people are talking to their people—but I’d be Dr. Sex. I’d … actively … counsel people who have sexual problems. Sort of a glorified sexual surrogate. We’d have a tasteful—yet erotic—bedroom set and all the sessions would take place there.” He eased into the chair again. “It would be on one of the premium channels. Lots of full-body shots. So, you can see why I need to be young and attractive.”
I bit my lip to keep from laughing again. I got a sudden visual of Tom, at his most pompous, instructing people on how to efficiently shove part A into part B, and then demonstrating the correct way to accomplish the task. It sounded like p**n to me.
“So, what’s the difference between that and a p**n movie?”
He thrust his chin into the air. “Sex therapists are professionals. I’d have to get a license for that specialty. I can assure you there’s no license needed for porn!”
Oops. I’d hit a nerve. Apparently, he must’ve had some mixed emotions about the p**n thing, too. We both knew that making one false move professionally could cause him to lose his psychology license.
“You came up with the idea for this program all by yourself?”
He reclaimed his chair and fanned his fingers out on the table, pretending to examine his manicured nails. “The idea was tossed around at a party I attended. You probably remember that I have a keen interest in all aspects of sex, right?” I nodded at the understatement of the year. “Well, some friends and I were experimenting, and a couple of them teasingly asked if I knew the best position to achieve a certain goal, and I just happened to have that knowledge, so I showed them. In fact, I demonstrated various techniques to several people. At the end of the evening, someone remarked that I should go into business as a sex therapist, because I was so good at it. And, not only that, but they’d videotaped the evening and when I watched the film, I had to agree that the camera loved me. I did seem to have a knack for sex therapy.”
Trying not to laugh by holding my lower lip between my teeth was starting to hurt. My jaw made a cracking sound when I opened my mouth. I struggled to keep a serious expression on my face. “I’m not clear on the actual therapy part of this plan. What else happens besides a lot of orgasms? Can you even do that stuff on television?”
“Yes, on special channels for adults.” He nodded enthusiastically. “I forgot to mention that during the session, while I’m describing the sex techniques, I’m also talking to them about the psychological reasons for their problems, and about ways to enhance emotional intimacy. When I demonstrate something myself, I share with them personal issues I’ve overcome in order to become the man I am today. During a mock session, one of the audience members even cried at the end. It was tremendously moving. So, can you see why I’m excited about this idea? I’d get to do two things I love—sex and therapy—as well as make money and be on television. It just doesn’t get any better than that.”
He stared at me expectantly.
I didn’t want to say “I see” again, so I just stared back at him and noticed his unnatural ashen appearance once more. “Why are you so pale? Are you sick? Is that really why you think you want to become one of the children of the night? Is this whole Dr. Sex story just a cover?”
He gave me a sheepish look. “No. I’m not sick. I really do want to be on television. I’m so white because Zoë’s been trying to turn me, and she just doesn’t have the juice.” He lowered his gaze. “She’s getting a little worried because, no matter how much blood we swap, the only thing that happens is that I get weaker. She’s afraid she’s just killing me instead of following the transformation ritual. She wasn’t totally clear on how to perform it. In fact, we’ve just been making it up as we go along.”
“There’s a transformation ritual?”
“Yeah. Zoë asked a bloodsucker she met in California for information, and apparently there are a couple of routes to becoming a vampire. The most painless one has lots of steps and involves both the sucker and the suckee holding a pure desire—whatever that is.”
“Pure desire? Devereux told me that the turning process was more complicated than what’s portrayed in movies and books, but he didn’t elaborate.” And Devereux’s dead mother had mentioned something about it being difficult to become a vampire. She said intention was needed. If I ever ran into—or through—her again, I’d be sure to ask what she meant, along with a couple hundred other questions.
Then I remembered something Tom had just said and grimaced. “Go back to the thing about swapping blood. You’re drinking Zoë’s blood?” Geez. All the chemicals in his peels, facials, and hair dye jobs must have seeped through his skin and started rotting his brain. He was crazier than most of my clients. I had no idea he’d gotten so desperate.
He narrowed his eyes and pressed his lips together tightly for a few seconds. “You hypocrite! You’re boinking a corpse. You let him drink your blood. Are you honestly expecting me to believe that you’ve never sampled his? That you’ve never been on the receiving end?”
Since my judgmental opinion was probably written all over my face, I couldn’t blame him for having such a reaction.
I had a quick memory flash of participating in a vampire-packed ritual myself where Devereux handed me a golden chalice filled with blood. He’d created the magical ceremony to protect me from the dark creature who’d targeted me. I remember taking a sip from the cup and finding the taste thick and unpleasant. At the time, I wasn’t sure if I really drank from the chalice or only imagined I did. Now I knew I’d done the deed. And it was an experience I didn’t plan to repeat.
“We’re not talking about me. I’m not the one going on a liquid diet. But, for your information, no. I haven’t sampled his.” That was true as far as I knew. The chalice had been filled with the blood of the vampires in the ritual circle. I didn’t remember seeing Devereux contribute to the potluck.
We locked eyes for a few seconds, both scowling. His brown eyes softened and he reached across the table and took my hands in his. “Will you help me, Kismet? Will you talk to Devereux for me? Put in a good word? Please?”
Wow. Tom had to be desperate if he was willing to admit he needed anyone’s help for anything.
Shit. I could imagine the conversation I’d have with Devereux. Devereux, my love. Would you please drain all the blood from my ex-boyfriend Tom so he can die and rise as a vampire to become the world-renowned Dr. Sex on cable TV? Yeah, that would be fun. Time for some artful avoidance.
I stood and patted Tom’s cheek. “Let me sleep on it.”
He smiled, “I could help you sleep on it.”
Laughing, I walked out of the kitchen, trudged up the stairs and into the bathroom. I locked the door, stripped off the bloody clothes, and took the world’s quickest shower. Still wet, I bolted into my bedroom, secured that door, peeled down the covers—which were still clean—and jumped into the bed.
I slept like the dead.
Chapter Ten
“Looks like you threw quite a party. I’m sure the master will be amused.”
My eyes flew open. Standing next to my bed was Luna, Devereux’s personal assistant and undead pit bull. It wasn’t full dark, but since she was vertical, it was safe to assume the sun had gone behind the mountains. I’d slept the entire day away.
She was dressed in her familiar black leather: skintight pants and a cl**vage-enhancing bustier. Her eye makeup was sedate compared to her usual Cleopatra-inspired artistry. Only one color of eye shadow, rather than the multi-hued extravaganza she regularly painted on. But the bold design was still a sharp contrast to her very pale skin. Long, straight hair fell like a thick, black veil in an unintended salute to Morticia from The Addams Family. Her silver eyes reminded me of … the murdering psychopath from the night before. I took a breath and forced myself to banish that thought. It wasn’t safe to send out any unconscious invitations.
“What are you talking about? What party?” I sat up and something fell from my forehead down onto my br**sts. I’d been in such a hurry to get into bed that I hadn’t taken the time to put on a nightgown. Or anything else.
Without thinking about my state of undress, I flicked on the bedside lamp, squinted down at the shiny blue thong displayed on my chest, and tried to remember why strange underwear would’ve been on my head. Unless I’d blacked out and one of my split personalities had invited someone for a sleepover, I had no answer to the mystery.
Luna bent down, lifted the thong with one finger, and dangled it in the air in front of my face. An evil smile spread across her lips. “I hope the sex was worth dying for, because the master is going to destroy him.”
I tugged a blanket over my exposed br**sts and stared at the blue fabric. I snatched the unidentified object from her finger and gave it a close inspection. There, embroidered across the front in golden thread, were the initials TR. Well, at least I knew why Tom hadn’t left any underwear in the bathroom when he got dressed. He obviously still enjoyed whipping off his skimpy thong and throwing it into the air before getting down to business. Some things never changed. While I was glad to have solved the puzzle, I was disgusted by the fact that the tacky garment had somehow ended up on my head.
I tossed Tom’s underwear on the floor and met the smirking gaze of the Amazon vampire looming over me. “Tom and Zoë frolicked in my room while I was gone last night. That’s his thong. Not that I owe you any kind of explanation.”
She snorted. “I’ll be sure to tell the master. I’m certain he’ll be understanding. He’s so trusting of your sincerity.”
I wasn’t awake enough to deal with Luna. Actually, I was never awake enough to deal with the hostile she-devil. She’d loathed me even before we met, based on the fact that Devereux enjoyed my company. To Luna, humans were only useful as a food source. She couldn’t imagine any other reason to have one of us around. I’d never figured out if there was any jealousy in the mix—if she wanted Devereux for herself—or if it really was about her belief that humans were inferior liquid delivery systems.