by Stacia Kane
"Oh, god.” Megan buried her face in her hands. The dull throbbing ache in her head promised to get worse as this hell continued.
"I was thinking we could get a picture of you holding a pitchfork or something. Maybe a big wooden cross? Sound good?"
She stared at him. He lifted his hands and leaned back in his seat, as if he was afraid she might start spitting on him. “Hey, only joking."
"Very funny."
"Oh, I do love jokes.” Greyson Dante stood by her side.
"Hello, Mr. Dante. I'm afraid this is a private conversation, so you will, of course, be going now."
His grin widened. Was there no way to insult the man? “Why, Dr. Chase, if I didn't know better I'd think you didn't want to see me."
"What makes you think you know better?"
"I always do."
Brian looked from one of them to the other. “Don't you want to introduce me to your friend, Megan?"
Dante still stood there smiling, his wineglass in one hand, looking like Cary Grant on a luxurious cruise. She hadn't been wrong in her first moonlight impression; he really was handsome, with dark hair and eyes and smooth, lightly tanned skin. She'd always liked dark-haired men, probably to contrast with her own blond paleness. Megan often thought she looked like a ghost. A dark man seemed to anchor her to earth, somehow, or perhaps it was just her obsessive childhood crush on Burt Reynolds.
Before she could disavow friendship with Dante and say no, Mr. Tall Dark Handsome and Annoying was shaking hands with the reporter.
"Dante. Greyson Dante."
Brian smiled. “Mr. Dante, then. Sit down. I'd love to talk to some of Megan's friends. Get some more personal information, you know?"
"I'd be glad to share what I know.” Greyson grabbed an empty chair from a nearby table—without asking the table's occupants, Megan noticed—and pulled it to theirs.
"Which isn't much,” she said under her breath.
Brian glanced at her. “What?"
Dante grinned. Megan wanted to stab him in the hand with her fork. Of course he was grinning. She couldn't say anything to him. She couldn't yell, or claim he was a crazy stranger, or be nasty to him. Brian was a reporter, a man with the power to make or break her reputation. Radio Counselor Can't Remember Names of Casual One-Night Stands ... Power-Mad Radio Host Turns Her Back On Friends Now That She's a Success ... Fame Drives Radio Counselor Insane...
"And how do you two know each other?” Brian was either trying to figure out what was wrong between them or, innocently unaware, was just trying to make conversation. Megan hoped it was the latter. She opened her mouth to speak, but Greyson got there first.
"I'm a counselor, too. From out of state. We met at a conference last year."
Megan would have bet her car that the closest Greyson ever came to counseling was recommending it for his clients in the hopes they would get larger damages in court.
If he was a lawyer. Which she had to admit she wasn't certain about. It was just a feeling she had, but without being able to read him she couldn't be sure.
"Our methods are very different,” Megan started, but Dante cut her off.
"But we both love helping people. I think ‘help’ is Dr. Chase's favorite word."
"And what's yours? ‘Malpractice'?"
"Oh, no.” He folded his hands on the table and leaned forward. “Sin is my favorite word, Dr. Chase. Sin."
His eyes caught hers, held. She leaned forward before she realized she was doing it, and sat back so quickly she knocked her knife onto the floor.
Dante tsked and picked it up, nodding to his pet waitress, who leapt to their table as if they were the only customers in the restaurant. Megan calmed herself and started studying the room, trying to avoid even looking at him.
Perhaps it was fallout from earlier, but the steak that had looked appetizing now made her throat close, and she made no move to use her new knife. She thought if someone made a loud noise she would jump right out of her skin, and it wasn't just the tension of the last day or so catching up with her.
The men continued chatting, unaware of her lapse into silence. “Oh, Megan is highly respected,” Dante said. “She's a real counselor's counselor."
A counselor's counselor? Where was he getting that shit?
Trying to soothe her churning stomach, Megan reached for her Coke and took a long swallow.
Something hovered in the air over the right shoulder of the woman at the next table.
The shadowy form lacked definition but as Megan watched she caught a flash of what looked like dark green before the color disappeared. The shadow stayed, rippling at the edges but hovering in place.
The woman didn't notice, but Megan stared transfixed. Blurry edges of darkness reached out and passed over the woman's face, then slipped back into the semi-solid mass.
The image made her gorge rise, but she kept staring, unable to move or blink. If she looked away, would it disappear? Or would it move, leaping to one of the other diners, as if trying to gain entry to someone's body? It felt so wrong, so ... evil. Her skin prickled and itched.
While the woman laughed and ate her food, the blurry form twisted and darted around, staying in the same space but writhing as if trying to burst through some kind of membrane.
Megan's stomach gave up the battle. She leapt from her chair, knocking it over in the process, and ran for the ladies’ room. She barely made it in time.
* * * *
"I'll walk you to your car, if you won't let me call a cab.” Dante faked concern pretty well.
"I'd rather walk.” She was tempted to tell him she didn't need his company, but it was after dark in the city and she wasn't stupid. Why walk alone when she could have a man she trusted—okay, a man she was fairly certain wouldn't attack her—to walk with her?
"What exactly do you want, Mr. Dante?"
"Call me Grey.” His footsteps fell in time with hers as they passed groups of revelers still out, most of whom looked like professional partiers. Megan, with her pallid face and businesslike suit, felt out of place, a grandma trying to hang out with teenagers. Which was ridiculous. At thirty-one she was still in the age range the stores and clubs catered to, but she didn't think she could ever go to them. It simply wasn't her scene, aside from how difficult it was to keep her shields tightly closed after spending hours in a hot room and having a few drinks.
"Megan?"
"What?"
"What happened back there in the restaurant?"
"What do you mean?"
"Before you ran off, you were staring at a woman behind me. I got the feeling something about her disturbed you."
Megan forced herself not to gag. She didn't even want to think about what she'd seen, that squirming mass, the sense of malevolence radiating from it. She certainly wouldn't discuss it with Greyson.
"I wasn't feeling well, that's all. I've been feeling off all day."
"Before you went to the hospital?"
"Yes, I—” She stopped short and swung to face him. “How the hell do you know that? Are you following me? Who the hell are you, anyway?"
Greyson raised his hands and stepped back. “Hey, hold on. It's not necessarily—"
"Don't tell me what it necessarily is or isn't. You tell me how you know all this about me. Who are you, Mr. Dante, and what do you want from me?"
If she'd hoped to disarm him, it didn't work. His face went carefully blank and he put his hands back in his pockets. “I just want you to listen to my—client's offer. That's all."
"Why are you following me? And you're either a moron, or you've been going out of your way to let me know you're following me. Why? What are you up to?"
"I want to help you."
"Help me what?"
"Sudden fame can be very difficult. You could attract some ... unwanted elements."
"Stop lying to me!"
"I'm not lying. Stalkers—"
"Stalkers? Like, for example, you?"
"I'm not a stalker."
"Oh? Let
's see. What does a stalker do? Follows someone around, tries to insinuate his or her way into the target's life, maybe drops some vague hints and threats along the way? Sound familiar? Are you going to start telling the press you're my secret husband next?"
His face darkened. “Megan, if you would just listen—"
"Fuck you.” She turned and started walking away. “Leave me alone, Mr. Dante,” she called over her shoulder. “You might be a lawyer, but that doesn't mean I can't still have you arrested."
"I never said I was a lawyer,” he called after her.
Don't take the bait, don't take the bait, don't take the bait...
She turned around when she reached the end of the block. He was gone.
* * * *
A big red blinking “2” on her answering machine welcomed her home. Someone wanted to sell her aluminum siding, she guessed, and perhaps the other call would be a hang-up for variety. She'd been getting a few of those lately.
Hearing Brian Stone's voice checking her well-being made her smile. Brian wasn't as bad as she'd thought. At least he didn't wear a fedora with a press card tucked in the band or talk out the side of his mouth or try to bribe people for information about her. At least she assumed he wouldn't.
The second message erased the smile. Kevin Walford's voice quavered out of the machine. “Um, Dr. Chase, I hope it's okay for me to call you at home, I mean, I'm sorry if it bothers you, but I wanted to thank you for earlier? For taking me to the hospital and all? I was hoping you could meet me there tomorrow, well, I was hoping maybe you'd meet me at Fearbusters, and Mr. Art said he'd talked to you about coming there anyway, and we thought maybe you would come down tomorrow because I wanted to thank you in person.” He finally took a breath. “So, um, call me if you can, or call Mr. Art, okay? And thank you.” He finished by reciting his phone number three times.
"Mr. Art” must be Art Bellingham. Why did that man want her to meet his group so badly? For a second she imagined he wanted her to lend her newfound fame to the program, but she managed to stop herself before the thought fully formed. It was only a little Sunday-night radio show in a mediocre radio market. So why was it suddenly so important for her to get to Fearbusters?
She'd left Bellingham's card on a little bronze tray on a table near the front door with her mail. The cheap paper stock felt slick and flimsy in her fingers, which reminded her of Dante's elegant, obviously expensive card. She fished that one out too.
Two men, each with some hidden agenda, each of whom seemed to want her to do something for them.
Either she was suddenly the most popular girl in town, or something was going on. Tomorrow she'd start finding out exactly what.
Chapter Four
The Outpatient Center was tucked behind the main hospital building and accessed by a tidy little path through landscaped lawns. Even the small, brightly illuminated parking lot had the incredibly clean and even look of a child's playset, the ones with gas stations and helicopter pads right next to each other on a smooth plastic street.
Megan parked and crossed the lot, shivering in the early autumn breeze. They were due for a cold snap, the first of the season, and she wished she'd brought a jacket. As it was she was dressed down, in jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt, with her favorite tennis shoes. She did not want to look like she was here for professional reasons. Neat, adult, and competent, yes. Ready to join the group and start working with clients, no.
Not that she couldn't use the work. The partners she worked with had certainly made their feelings clear, in a meeting that morning. Megan's show and its attendant publicity damaged their practices. Any further problems and she'd be out. For now, in order to protect their patients from further invasions of privacy, she was to hire her own receptionist and arrange additional soundproofing for the offices. They'd hired a locum to take her patients until she complied. She was officially on leave.
The doors were locked and the receptionist's desk was empty. Megan hit the after-hours buzzer.
"Yes?"
"I'm Megan Chase,” she said into the tiny grill of the microphone. “I'm here to see—"
"Megan!” It was Art. “I'm glad you could come."
The lock gave a low hum and a click. Megan opened the door and entered the building.
The spacious lobby smelled like hospital, which was to be expected, but on top of it was a different scent, one that made Megan think of dorm rooms and New Age shops before she realized it was incense. Incense? It wasn't anywhere near as pleasant as the smell of the restaurant where Brian had taken her to dinner earlier. Of course, the fragrance had been one of the only good things about that meal. Brian wasn't a bad guy, but the questions about her background and childhood made her uncomfortable. She'd moved to the city to get away from all of that. Even giving him a carefully censored version hadn't helped. Silently she crossed the tile floor, past the shabby, lonely-looking blue chairs of the waiting area.
"Hi there!” The lone fluorescent fixture in the hallway gave Art Bellingham a pale greenish cast and glinted off his glasses, hiding his eyes. The unnatural light did nothing to improve the multiple hues of Art's cheap tie or the fit of his too-short, too-tight slacks.
"Hi."
"I was hoping you would take me up on my offer,” he enthused, pumping her hand.
"I'm not—” she started, but Kevin entered the hall and she broke off.
"Dr. Chase,” he said, walking towards her with his hand offered. His eagerness trapped her.
The two men led her into the meeting room. This was the source of the incense—four or five sticks burned in various places. The furniture hugged the walls, leaving a space in the center of the floor which was covered with blue gymnastics mats.
Art followed her gaze. “We sit on the floor, generally. That way if anyone wants to lie down or be held, it's easier."
Megan nodded. “And the chairs?” There were two comfortable-looking armchairs, each placed at opposite ends of the mats.
Art smiled. “One for me and, tonight, one for you."
"I see.” Megan didn't like this set-up at all. It wasn't the idea of clients sitting on the floor, it was the idea that, for whatever reason, Art didn't think he should be on the floor with them.
Perhaps her plan to ask Art pointblank what he wanted should be forgotten. She generally tried not to read people unless she felt she might be in some kind of danger, but she opened herself a little bit, feeling for his mind with her own. It never took her long to get what she needed, but she was always cautious.
Sometimes people knew, like she'd suspected Dante had two nights before. They didn't know, but they sensed something. Better to be careful. She'd learned that lesson as a child, when she'd gained an unwanted reputation as “the creepy girl” because she hadn't been able to control her abilities.
Art didn't seem to notice. He kept talking, explaining the group's philosophy, but she stopped listening.
Something went through her mind, disappearing before she could make sense of it. It was so cold, so ... empty. Blackness filled her vision, and for a moment she couldn't breathe. Her stomach lurched. All the while the cold seeped into her, filling her mind, her body.
Megan.
The voice came from everywhere, from inside her head, low-pitched and unctuous. She bit her lip to keep from crying out while Art continued speaking to her, his thin face glowing with pride.
She cut him off with a gasp as the darkness left. The lights brightened as if someone had removed a filter. The feeling of sickness disappeared, leaving her wondering if it had been real, or if she'd imagined it.
"Megan? Are you okay?"
She swallowed a mouthful of saliva and tried to smile. The muscles in her face protested so much she expected an audible creak. “I'm fine,” she said. “Just—impressed."
"You haven't heard the best part yet.” Art took her hand and led her to a chair. She sat. She didn't have the strength to do what she wanted to do—turn and run away as fast as she could—and, she suspected, even t
hat wouldn't dissuade Art from pursuing her.
Of course, she could be seriously disturbed. Nothing said counselors never had problems. Her powers could be fizzling out. She could be seeing the darkness of her own soul. Certainly that had happened before. That was why she became a counselor to start with—because of what happened when she was fifteen.
It made a more likely explanation than the idea that Art was some evil creature bent on eating her soul. The man couldn't even afford decent slacks.
"What's the best part?” she asked.
"Our clients!” Art said with the same twittering high-pitched laugh she'd heard the day before. He sounded like a little old lady. “They're such a special group of people, and if I'm not mistaken—” the buzzer for the door sounded “—that's them now. Stay here with Kevin, I'll go let them in."
Kevin smiled. “I hope you didn't mind me calling you at home. Mr. Art gave me the number."
She nodded. “I assumed.” Assumed he'd taken it from her hospital file, the creep. “It's okay, Kevin."
"I won't do it again,” he said, twisting his hands at waist level. “I promise."
"Kevin, don't worry,” she said. “How are you feeling?"
"Much better,” he said, “now that Mr. Art isn't—” Raised voices sounded in the hallways, a woman's footsteps echoing beneath them.
"Isn't what, Kevin?” Megan leaned forward. “Now that Mr. Art isn't what?"
But Kevin only shook his head. “Never mind. It's not important."
The rest of the Fearbusters group entered the room, moving together but oddly apart. They talked to each other, even smiled, but what Megan felt in the air was disconnection. These people were terribly wrapped up in themselves, huddling into their bodies like threatened mollusks pulling into their shells. They didn't relate to each other at all.
Perhaps she'd judged Art too harshly. Maybe with a group like this the best thing to do was get them together on the floor and try to make them touch each other, pull each other out of themselves.
She'd have to see.
One by one, they introduced themselves, with varying degrees of welcome and suspicion. There was Bob, a glowering giant of a man who must have been at least six and a half feet tall, with thick black hair cut in a military buzz. Hanna gazed at Megan from under long light-brown bangs and through owlish pink glasses. Her entire body was encased in shades of drab, topped with a dress that looked like something a Laura Ingalls Wilder character had discarded.
