Crimson Psyche

by Lynda Hilburn

  “Those are great questions, Betsy,” I said.

  Carson stood and walked behind my chair, clamped his sausage-sized fingers on my shoulders and began to roughly massage them. ’80s Guy stepped back to observe. The engineer on the other side of the glass shook his head frantically, gesturing at Carson to return to his seat, but he ignored him. As his hands inched away from my shoulders, heading down toward my breasts, I bolted from the chair, grabbing my microphone before slipping out of his reach.

  I guess I’ll get to find out how far this cord will stretch, and maybe how he’ll like a pointy toe to the crotch.

  “Yes, I do offer both groups and educational classes, so have them call my office.”

  Speaking of evil energy, what was up with this fool? I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen such a disturbed person out in public. Was he on drugs as well? Did he have a death wish? He’d be a midnight vampire snack if he didn’t chill out pretty soon. There was more than one benefit to hanging out with the undead.

  “I have noticed an increase in people of all ages joining these cults.”

  I leaned against the glass separating the on-air room from the hallway, where Carson’s audience continued to appreciate his antics. I tried to focus on Betsy’s concerns while making sure I stayed out of Carson’s reach.

  “It doesn’t make sense, because there’s been so much negative publicity about the dark underside of the vampire lifestyle.”

  He jumped up and started dancing around the studio while I spoke, lifting the front of his T-shirt and pointing to his protruding, hairy stomach. His audience licked the window with their tongues. I tried not to lose my breakfast and worked on keeping my voice steady.

  This is fascinating — like watching a nightmare train wreck. I’m almost sorry for him, but not quite.

  “There does appear to be an escalating interest,” I told Social Worker Betsy. “I’ve also heard the talk about Denver being one of the places where evil is growing. A police friend said recently that all forms of violent crimes are up here. People seem to be losing control of themselves. I admit I don’t understand what could be causing the changes.”

  Well, at least not anything I can talk about.

  Carson leaped back into his chair, drew his microphone close and affected a whining, high-pitched voice, squeaking, “Oh my, goodness gracious, help me! There’s evil in Denver. Somebody save me! That’s enough with the social worker.” He punched the next blinking button. “You’re on the air, and I insist you be more interesting than the last caller.”

  Seconds of silence ticked by... although silence didn’t begin to cover it. The hairs on the back of my neck rose and goose bumps swarmed over my arms. It was like someone — or something — had sucked all the air from the room, or opened a black hole — cold, bottomless, terrifying. I could see even Carson was entranced, because his facial muscles slackened.

  Then a deep, sonorous male voice spoke. “Dr. Knight. I have been looking forward to meeting you.”

  The ghost visibly started, causing phantom liquid to shoot up from the beer can. His eyes wide, he vanished from the studio.

  My solar plexus tingled, as it always did when a vampire was near.

  Whoa, what’s going on here? This guy has the vampire voice for sure, and his vibe is definitely bloodsucker, but it’s daylight, so he can’t really be a vampire. I shouldn’t be able to feel a vampire over the telephone, right? Shit. I don’t trust myself any more to make judgments about who’s a vampire and who isn’t. Only six months ago Brother Luther slipped right under my radar and that mistake almost got me killed.

  Carson snapped out of his mini-trance and wheezed into the microphone, “Hey, Doc, I think we got us a live one here! Or a dead one! I’m a riot. I really crack myself up. I’ll bet this guy’s a vampire. He sounds like a vampire. So, Mister Vampire, what’s your name, and what’s it like being a creature of the night?” He slouched back in his chair, grinning, waiting for the next straight line to be supplied for his comedy routine.

  The caller whispered, “Silence, tedious human.”

  Carson’s eyes slammed shut. He slumped in his chair, his chin bouncing on his fleshy chest.

  I stared at the host. I’d seen this kind of hypnosis-like state before, but always from vampires. Real ones.

  “Dr. Knight?” the deep voice purred.

  I gasped involuntarily. His voice was distractingly arousing. It caressed my skin like warm fingers, reminding me of intimate encounters of the gorgeous undead variety. What the hell is going on?

  I cleared my throat. “Yes, I’m here. There does appear to be something unique about you. Something—”

  “Vampiric?” he whispered, the resonance of the word vibrating like a hand stroking my body.

  Yikes. I think I moaned. Pull yourself together, Kismet. You’ve been through this before. Now’s not the time to re-explore the “V” spot. Take a deep breath and cross your legs. Tight.

  He gave a devilish chuckle.

  “You’re a vampire?” I blurted a bit too loudly.

  “I am indeed.”

  And hopefully, all the listeners will assume he’s either a wannabe or a nutter.

  “How can you be a vampire and be awake during the day?”

  “I am very old — older than anything you can understand. I no longer have any limitations on my abilities. As long as my body is sheltered from the direct rays of the sun, it is pleasant to move about, although I much prefer the night. Each vampire has his or her own special skills. You have had only a small taste of mine.”

  And when he said “taste” I felt something tongue-like move between my legs. I pressed my thighs even tighter together.

  I glanced over at Carson to make sure he wasn’t witnessing my discomfort, but he was still out cold, drooling down the front of his shirt. Judging by their loose jaws and glazed eyes, his spectators were entranced too.

  This can’t be good. The entire radio audience is listening to me talk to a real vampire. Is this some kind of set-up? I’ve never known a vampire this powerful before, not even the librarian, Zephyr, or insane Dracul—

  “They will not remember a thing, Dr. Knight. Do not trouble yourself about the humans. They are in a light trance. We can chat freely,” he said, apparently reading my thoughts.

  Oh, no! I quickly started practicing the sound-magic hum I’d learned from my psychic friend Cerridwyn, which keeps my brain safe from vampire influence. Well, the hum and my yearly ancient-vampire-blood cocktail. How can he be reading my thoughts? The elders intervened. They said my brain can’t be accessed or harmed any more. I’m supposed to be protected from bloodsucker influence!

  Then I had a horrible thought, that whoever this creature was, maybe he’d caused hundreds of cars to swerve off roads all over the Denver Metro area as listeners dozed at the wheel. He’d obviously scared the ghost away.

  “Of course I can read your mind.” He laughed, the sound tightening my stomach. I wasn’t sure if the sensation was pleasure or pain. Maybe it was both.

  “I am unique in all the world. Nothing the elders do can impede me. And as for the fate of your listeners, one might expect a psychologist to be the compassionate type — but never fear, the populace is safe from me, at least for the moment. They are merely hypnotized. For a vampire, creating an altered state is not dependent upon proximity. It is quite simple to insert a mental suggestion into the radio waves. While we speak, your mortals believe they are listening to a pleasant tune. They will resurface in due course remembering a relaxing daydream. No harm will come to them — until it suits me, anyway.”

  “What do you want?” I finally managed to mumble. The sound of his voice made my head fuzzy, and that sent another jolt of fear through my body. I wasn’t supposed to be overwhelmed by vampires any more.

  “Just to introduce myself. I am a remarkable soul, even in the vampire realm. Lyren Hallow, Vampire Hunter Extraordinaire, at your service. You may call me Hallow.”

  His disclosure momentar
ily threw me and I spluttered, “What? A vampire hunter? But you’re a vampire. How can you be a vampire hunter? Aren’t there rules about that?”

  “A fiend has to make a living, yes?” he replied, the sound caressing all my pleasure centers. “Even ancient vampires are not immune to the delightful siren song of money. Surprisingly superficial, I admit, but the acquisition of gold has always been an intriguing game. And in my own defense, I challenge you to keep uncovering reasons to crawl out of the tomb every night after thousands of years. Existence can be such a chore. Hunting down and killing my own kind, now there is something a nightwalker can really sink his fangs into.” He gave a wild laugh, as if he found himself highly amusing.

  I cleared my throat, stalling for time. Ever since I had stumbled into Denver’s hidden vampire underworld, I’d been struggling to regain my balance — to find some sort of sanity to cling to while reeling from one absurd revelation to another. “Why are you telling me this?”

  “I have been hired to harvest someone you know and I thought it only sporting to tip my hand ever so slightly, just to keep things interesting. And of course you have become very well known in the bloodsucker community. I simply could not resist strolling through your brain, even if from a distance. I expect you will make the quest much more tantalizing for me. The link between us is open now, so it will be easier for us to communicate in the future. But, alas, I must leave you, for duty calls. Oh, and by the way, you might notice some changes in your behavior — fewer inhibitions, a bit more passion, stronger emotions. Nothing to worry about. Just consider the adjustments to be my gift to you. Until we meet again, lovely Dr. Knight.”

  There was a click and the line went dead. So to speak.

  Changes in my behavior? And what the hell does he mean by “harvest”? Is he going to kill someone? He can’t mean Devereux — this must be a sick joke.

  I hadn’t noticed that the engineer on the other side of the glass studio partition had been staring off into space until he suddenly jerked back to awareness. So did Carson, who managed to startle himself out of his chair, which rolled away from him and crashed into the wall as his flabby ass hit the floor with a dull thud.

  He wiped the pooling saliva from his chins and stood up, looking around, a stranger in a strange land.

  “What the hell just happened?” he bellowed, scratching his bulging belly.

  The engineer knocked on the glass, then pointed to the clock to show Carson that he needed to announce the station ID and the time. Several minutes had passed and our interview was over.

  Glaring at me, Carson grabbed his microphone and slipped back into his on-air personality. He gave the required information, deepening his voice into a sexy growl. “I’d like to thank our guest, the boob-dacious Dr. Kismet Knight, for being on the show today. Aliens must have abducted me because I sure as hell don’t know where the time went. Stay tuned, and I’ll be right back after these words from our moneymakers.”

  He clicked off his mic and turned suspicious eyes to me. “I don’t remember shit, and I don’t know what you did, but I know you did something.” He clutched his stomach, his harsh voice for once in alignment with his actual character. “I feel it in my gut. There was that weird phone call and then — nothing. Maybe you slipped something into my coffee. This isn’t over, Kismet, baby. You’ll be hearing from me again. I smell a story here, and I intend to be the one to exploit it as only I can.” He made a sucking-in-air noise with his mouth that reminded me of Hannibal Lecter.

  I grabbed my briefcase and headed toward the studio door. I hurried past Carson’s fans, who were standing propped against the wall, looking dazed.

  I had been tempted to tell the slimy host what a nasty coffin of worms he’d opened, but I decided not to. He’d been the worst kind of abusive jerk to me during our interview and I wasn’t in the mood to go out of my way to save his neck. Even if he was obviously sick.

  Besides, if he wanted to step into an episode of Supernatural, who was I to interfere?

  I shook my head to clear some of the remaining mental cobwebs and hustled down the carpeted hallway toward the lobby, moving fast enough to generate static around the bottom of my dress. The material sealed itself to my knees and I stopped, resting a hand against the wall next to the reception desk, watching tiny electrical sparks dance along the fabric as I tugged it away from my legs.

  Carson’s voice slithered out of the invisible speakers built into the ceiling of the lobby, announcing his next guest: the former Miss Denver, who’d been disqualified when her breast enhancement surgery had been discovered. As if everyone and her sister wasn’t lining up for augmentation these days.

  But I felt a little sorry for the poor beauty queen. I wondered if she was as clueless as I’d been about Carson’s sick personality, or if she would be expecting his own personal brand of insanity.

  I must have mumbled something out loud while I was bent over the hem of my dress, because a voice answered me.

  “Carson Miller is an oozing wart on the ass of humanity — no, wait. He’s what gets sucked out of Porta-potties after sports events. No, wait, he’s what you squish out of an abscessed pimple.”

  Chapter 2

  Surprised, I jerked my head up to discover the source of the horribly accurate descriptions and found a hand reaching out in my direction.

  My gaze traveled up — way up — to settle on the amused face of the tall woman standing in front of me.

  Instinctively I straightened, grasped the proffered hand and matched her smile. Despite her comfortable running shoes she towered over me. She had to be more than six feet tall, because I’m just four inches shy of that in my bare feet and today I was wearing three-inch heels.

  But it was her hair even more than her stature that caught the eye: an amazing waterfall of silky white that fell almost to the back of her knees.

  My dark brown hair is very long and curly, but compared to hers, I’ve got a crew-cut.

  I stared rudely at the Arctic avalanche flowing down her body, trying to figure out what sort of genetic glitch could give someone so obviously young such pure white hair. After a few seconds, my good manners reappeared and I offered a nod of apology.

  She laughed, a warm tinkling sound, and released my hand. “Yeah, don’t worry about it. Everybody has that reaction. I’m the Winter Queen, otherwise known as Maxie Westhaven, the Maxie part being short for Maxwell. My parents definitely wanted a boy.” She laughed again and spun around in a circle. “Ya think they were a little disappointed?”

  I added my laughter to hers, my inner therapist glad she had a healthy sense of humor about her Victoria’s Secret body. Her curvy shape wasn’t something you could successfully hide under a Denver Broncos T-shirt and jeans.

  “It’s nice to meet you. I’m Kismet—”

  “Yeah, I know who you are. I saw your picture in the paper a few months back when you were embroiled in all that vampire stuff. I even tried to interview you then. I just heard you on the radio. Oh, by the way, I’m a reporter for National Cynic magazine. Have you heard of us?”

  My smile dissolved. Unfortunately, I had heard of the rag — and so had anybody else who ever went to a convenience store, gas station or Laundromat. It was impossible to miss the latest edition, which featured an absurdly fake photograph of a two-headed alien on the cover and a story about the merits of treating depression by exorcism, rather than seeing a psychotherapist.

  The magazine was positively schizophrenic: it devoted as much space to publicizing ludicrous “cures” and practitioners as it did to debunking fakes, charlatans and New Age gurus in so-called “exposés”.

  Disappointed, because I’d immediately liked her, I wrapped my professional aura around me again and reminded myself that I had to be careful with the media. I’d definitely been there and done that and now I knew better than to say anything that might put my vampire — or vampire wannabe — clients in danger. Not to mention a certain master vampire who revved my heart rate and jump-started my libid
o every time he materialized in 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. “Hmm. 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. Really,” she said at my raised eyebrows, “I just wanted to meet you. You sound interesting. I think 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.”

  “Those are polite words for what you do.”

  She shifted her weight from foot to foot as if she were impatiently waiting to blast off to the next location. “What can I say? I give them a reality check, just like you do. See?” She shrugged and flipped a thick handful of that 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 and met her blue eyes, which were just a shade lighter than mine. The irises were ringed with a thin line of indigo. Golden eyebrows and lashes gave evidence of what her original hair color might have been. I studied her face for a couple of seconds. I’d been so distracted by her amazing mane that I hadn’t even noticed the perfect features. The pandemonium with Carson and Hallow 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? I’m definitely slow this morning.