My smile dissolved.
Unfortunately, I had heard of the rag. Along with anybody else who ever went to a grocery store or a Laundromat. It was impossible to miss the latest copy, which featured an absurdly fake photograph of a two-headed alien on the cover and an article about the merits of treating depression by exorcism, rather than seeing a psychotherapist.
The magazine was schizophrenic. The articles spent as much time publicizing ludicrous “cures” and practitioners, as they did debunking the so-called fakes, charlatans, and New Age gurus they supposedly exposed.
Disappointed, because I’d immediately liked her, I wrapped my professional aura around me again, and reminded myself that I had to be very careful with the media. I didn’t want to do anything to put my vampire—or vampire wannabe—clients in danger. Not to mention a certain master vampire who scrambled my brain waves and jump-started my libido every time he materialized into my room.
I fired up my formal therapist’s voice and answered her question, “I have, yes.”
Maxie apparently noticed my attitude change and distancing maneuver. “Hmmm. I can see that my occupation doesn’t fill your heart with joy. Well, let me ease your mind. I didn’t approach you for an interview. I just wanted to meet you. You seem interesting. We actually might be kindred spirits, because I’m sure you spend a lot of your time convincing confused people that they don’t want to pretend to be vampires, and I spend a lot of mine debunking the ones you can’t talk out of it.
“See?” She shrugged and flipped a thick handful of the long, white hair over her shoulder. “We’re on the same side, here. And I’ll bet you thought my description of Cretin—I mean, Carson—was on the money.”
I smiled before I could censor myself. I didn’t believe for a minute that she hadn’t come over to interview me. My intuition was doing jumping jacks to get my attention—making sure I’d gotten on the clue bus and noted the obvious fact that the snow-haired reporter was lying. I knew she definitely wanted something, and now I was curious. If she really was just prowling for a story lead, I could hold my own. I’d become expert at zigging when the media wanted me to zag. But I wasn’t picking up any blatantly negative energy from her—in fact, she gave off quite a lighthearted, playful vibe. Surely, it wouldn’t hurt anything to let down my guard a little. Probably. Maybe. After all, I had been trying to make more human friends lately to balance the alternative. I’d never make any connections if I always suspected the motives of everybody who came near me. There’s a fine line between being careful and being paranoid—a line I frequently tripped over.
“You’re right. It was on the money, if understated.” I chuckled, and met her eyes, which surprised me by being the same, sky-blue color as mine. I’d gotten so distracted by her amazing hair that I hadn’t even noticed the perfect features of her face. The pandemonium with Carson must have thrown me off my game more than I realized.
Gee, Kismet. You’re losing it. Aren’t psychologists supposed to be observant? Wouldn’t you say that’s a handy skill for a therapist to have?
She smiled wide, exposing perfect porcelain. “Can I buy you a coffee?”
I raised an eyebrow and cocked my head. “And you were saying what about not wanting to interview me?”
She held one hand up, as if she were preparing to be sworn in for testimony in a court hearing. “I swear on a stack of Dracula novels that our conversation over coffee will be off the record. What do you say? We’re on the seventeenth floor now, and my office is down on the tenth, and there’s a Starbucks on the twelfth. Is Starbucks neutral enough territory?” She pointed to the elevator and plastered an obvious innocent look on her face.
I laughed, actually happy at the thought of having a few moments of chitchat with another woman around my own age—and species. No matter what her ulterior motive might be. It was fascinating spending so much time with the undead, but I always felt like an outsider—an other. Not that I needed any help feeling that way to begin with.
There were a couple of empty hours before my first client session of the day, so what the hell?
I grabbed my coat off the hanging pegs along the wall next to the elevator, and we rode down to the twelfth floor-all the time treated to Carson’s sleazy, frantic voice squealing through the speakers, going on about “mondo tits.” Comparatively speaking, I guess I’d gotten off easy.
* * *
“This is some good shit,” Maxie said, as she held her coffee mug in both hands and inhaled the aroma. She closed her eyes and smiled, obviously in the midst of a religious experience.
I laughed and took a sip from my mug. Another coffee junkie. At least we had that in common.
As I waited for her to complete her euphoric java worship and open her eyes, I scanned the people in the room, noticing that Maxie attracted a lot of attention. That wasn’t too surprising when you factored in the outrageous hair, the model’s face and body, and some indefinable energy that seemed to radiate from her. And, even though I’d gotten used to generating a little attention in a room myself lately—consorting with vampires tends to bring out a woman’s wilder side—it was actually pleasant to be out of the spotlight.
“So. You want to know about the hair, right?” Maxie blurted, distracting me from my people-watching.
Suddenly, distant laughter echoed in my mind, and I caught a quick movement out of the corner of my eye. When I swiveled my head to investigate, nothing was there. Goose bumps ran a marathon up my arms. I stared into my coffee, wondering if the special blend of the day contained an extra ingredient, or if I was simply having an anxiety attack. After my experiences earlier in the year, I no longer took anything for granted. Not even my sanity. Or, maybe especially not my sanity.
I scanned the room and reminded myself I was in the “normal” world—sitting in a coffee shop. No paranormal creatures waiting to jump out at me. Nothing lurking in the shadows. Just regular nine-to-five types, dressed for corporate success, indulging in a bit of overpriced caffeine. Yeah. But what about the vampire who’d called the radio show? He’d really felt like a vampire. And a powerful one, at that. Thinking it was possible for one of them to walk around during the day blew all my carefully constructed denials out of the water. Acknowledging they exist in the first place had been mind numbing enough, without the terrifying realization that safety was a bigger illusion than I already assumed. Part of me longed for the innocent days before I fell into the crack between the worlds.
“Doc?” Maxie tapped my arm. “You still with me?”
My gaze snapped back to her fish-eyed stare. What the hell was wrong with me? I did have a tendency to drift away, but not usually when I was sitting with someone. I’d worked really hard to learn to stay present with clients. I definitely needed more coffee.
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to float away on you. Not enough sleep, I guess.” I wiped the corners of my lips with a napkin. “Yes, absolutely. I’d love to know about the hair. You’ve got to admit it’s unique. When did it turn white?” Forcing the vampire thoughts aside, I relaxed into my chair, appreciating the opportunity to discuss something I wasn’t required to give advice or have an opinion about.
She scrutinized my face a few seconds longer, one eyebrow raised, then grinned and scooped the thick whiteness back into a tail, holding it with both hands. “When I was twenty years old, something amazing happened to me and my hair changed—overnight—from blond to white. I simply woke up one morning with old-lady hair. Let me tell you what a shock it was to the other girls in my dorm at college—not to mention my family.”
Hmmm. She believes her hair changed overnight. Interesting. I wonder what really happened?
“There’s no way your hair could be described as old-lady hair. It’s gorgeous.” I examined her face, guessing her to be in her late twenties to early thirties. “You said something amazing happened? Amazing good or amazing not-so-good?”
Okay. I didn’t want to be interviewed, but I couldn’t help turning the tables on Maxie. Once a therapist, always a therapist. Lift up the rock and see what’s underneath, that’s my motto. I’ve never been good at small talk.
She stared off for a few seconds, then turned serious eyes back to me. “Amazing good. Maybe I’ll tell you about it after we get to know each other better.”
Hmmm. Secrets. Did she know that offering that kind of tantalizing interpersonal tidbit was like waving a red cape at a bull? I was just about to find a way to sneak into her psychic side door when she scooted her chair closer to the table.
“So, do you believe in vampires?” Maxie fixed her eyes on mine, her lips spreading in a Cheshire-cat smile. “Strictly off the record, of course.”
Talk about a quick change of subject. Maxie was probably a very good reporter, and I smiled in appreciation of her tactics. But I definitely didn’t want to discuss vampires, and the wheels in my brain were spinning, kicking up mental dust, as I tried to think of something innocuous to say. I’m sure my inner struggle was apparent, because I felt various emotions surf across my face.
I must have hesitated long enough that she thought she’d better try something different, because she said, “Okay, I’ll go first. No interview. Honest. A simple conversation. Just two ordinary businesswomen talking about their daily lives. A couple of regular professionals, discussing alien abductions, vampires, werewolves, reincarnation, demonic possession, and other everyday occurrences. Regular, run-of-the-mill rock-and-roll.” Her voice picked up speed and volume as she spoke.
“I’ve been writing for this magazine for five years and I’ve heard every preposterous story you can imagine. I think I could surprise even you. But in all that time, as I’ve investigated each bizarre allegation thoroughly, I’ve never come across anything that could be even remotely considered paranormal. Not one real vampire. No werewolves. No aliens. No demons. Just a lot of sick, weird, f**ked-up humans looking for attention or behaving very badly. I now know for a fact that what you see is what you get. There is no magic. There is no Wizard of Oz. Just the demented little man behind the curtain, pulling the levers.”
She flopped back in her chair, breathless.
Her passionate diatribe had captured the attention of everyone in the coffee shop, and the room was so quiet you could hear a vampire fang descend.
Noticing she was center stage, Maxie smiled, stood, and spread her arms wide, acknowledging one side of the room, then the other. Her long veil of hair swayed as she moved. “Thank you, America. Thank you for this honor. They like me! They really like me!” she said, imitating an old Academy Awards acceptance speech.
“Give ’em hell, Maxie!” yelled a young male wearing a backward baseball cap. He thrust his fist into the air. The other customers applauded.
She bowed dramatically, lifted her hair out of the way, and dropped into her chair.
“If I hadn’t found fame and fortune as a magazine reporter, I woulda gone into acting. And who knows? If this job doesn’t pan out, I still might.” She slapped her thigh with her palm, threw back her head, and howled.
Either Maxie was a certifiable candidate for a rubber room, or she was the most free-spirited person I’d met in a long time. Maybe ever.
The other Starbucks customers applauded again, some howling back at her. Apparently, they were used to her theatrics. I’d thoroughly enjoyed the performance and clapped along with the rest of the audience. I found myself laughing uninhibitedly. When I realized it had been a while since I’d done that, I was surprised by how good it felt.
“Wow,” I said. “You’re passionate about your skepticism. No fence sitting for you, eh?”
“Yeah, that’s me. The Opinionated Cynic. The Know-It-All Pessimist. The Been-There, Done-That-And-Found-It-Boring Mocker. So, what about you? Are you a skeptic, or do you really buy all the stuff your clients try to sell?”
That was a tricky question. If she’d asked me six months ago, I’d have been able to honestly say that I agreed with her assessment completely. That vampires, wizards, witches, ghosts, and various other preternatural phenomena were all imaginary—or delusional. No rational person could believe in fairy-tale or horror-movie creatures of the night. No reasonable, sane person would give credibility to nocturnal creepy-crawlies.
But in the last half year I’d looked under the bed and found the monsters. There really was a vampire tapping at my window. Hell, forget tapping. He didn’t bother with a window. He just materialized wherever he wanted and dazzled me with his platinum hair and turquoise eyes. Skepticism was no longer an option.
Unless, of course, I’d gone completely bonkers, and all my experiences could be explained away by a brain aneurysm or epileptic seizures. I took the possibility of medically caused insanity very seriously. A while back I’d actually gone so far as to have myself tested, just to rule out those probabilities. The scientific part of me simply stubbornly refused to acknowledge what seemed to be happening. As glad as I was to find myself aneurysm-free, that meant the simplest explanations were probably true. To paraphrase Occam’s razor, “When analyzing a complicated situation, after you remove all the unnecessary elements, whatever is left—no matter how weird—must be true.” Not being able to blame the vampires on a brain disorder meant that the simple fact—that vampires exist—must be true. But just because I understood that twisted reality didn’t mean I’d totally made peace with it. No matter how many vampire clients I had.
Maxie waved her hand in front of my face and I jumped, my gaze reconnecting with hers.