Dark Harvest

by Lynda Hilburn

  As I stood alone in a burned-out amusement park in the middle of the night, I definitely wished I could press the rewind button on the cosmic video camera, and go back to my simple, safe life. Okay, it was boring. But secure. Predictable.

  But, would I really go back? Pity party aside, would I give up my new life if I had the chance? Give up Devereux? Right then I didn’t have a clear answer, and I had more immediate problems to deal with.

  Carson had been murdered. My first instinct was to call the police. I reached into the pocket of the coat and fished out my phone, started to punch in 9-1-1, then stopped. What was I doing? If I did call them, what would I say? A sadistic vampire—yes, they really did exist—captured and staked a radio talk show host in front of an audience of vampire wannabes, a rag reporter, and a local psychologist? Then the bad vampire caused the audience to pass out, ordered his servants to snatch the reporter, and traveled through thought to capture the psychologist? Send the guys with the white coats, please. Talk about déjà vu. Reporting a murder I had no rational explanation for would only trap me into another legal ordeal, and I’d just begun to recover—professionally and personally—from the first situation five months earlier.

  Too bad Lieutenant Bullock, the lead investigator on that serial murder case, and the only other local human aware of the vampires, was off training at Quantico. She would’ve known what to do to straighten out this mess.

  Thinking of her reminded me I was on my own.

  Well, what if I called in anonymously from a phone booth? I could just report the crime, give the location—supposing they knew where the old amusement park was located, because I certainly didn’t—and hang up. Yeah, I could do that.

  I put the phone back in my pocket and stared at the vast sky. Barely perceptible light softened the eastern horizon, announcing the approaching dawn. All the little vampires—except the day-walking Hallow—would be snug in their coffins soon. The immortal horror show concluded for another night. Of course, the human monsters were still free to spread their own brand of ghastly chaos, impervious to the numbers on the clock.

  As much as I hated to admit it, Devereux had been right. He hadn’t been crying wolf about Hallow. The sociopathic bloodsucker was dangerous. What did the lunatic mean about having other plans for me? I’d witnessed his idea of fun, and remembering the sound of the large spikes piercing Carson’s limbs made the bile rise in my throat. What could I possibly do to fend off such a monster?

  The cautious portion of my psyche took center stage and began reciting the reasons I should go hide in Devereux’s penthouse. She was enthusiastically giving voice to my fears, and hadn’t even gotten halfway through her arguments, when the smirking, rebellious part who’d thought it would be fun to leave Devereux out of the information loop swaggered into the spotlight and pushed Caution aside and grabbed the metaphorical microphone. They yelled at each other in my inner rubber room, attracting the attention of another indecisive group of my sub-personalities, who stepped into the scene, observed the conflict, decided not to get involved, and left Caution and Rebel to duke it out.

  As I watched Caution leap onto Rebel’s back and wrestle her down, I hoped she’d have the strength to retain control. Who would I be if I wasn’t her? Then it occurred to me to wonder which part of me was doing the watching?

  Schizophrenia, anyone?

  I—whatever I meant at that point—turned my thoughts back to Hallow. What if he’d lied about Maxie? What if he’d done something to her? As I thought that, I braced myself for a mental onslaught—more head-rumbling opinions from Hallow—but didn’t receive one. Had the murderer really stopped talking in my mind just because I’d asked him to? No. I didn’t believe that. Nothing about immortals was that simple. I was sure the situation would prove to have more horrifying layers than I could anticipate. Yet another aspect a human mind couldn’t comprehend.

  I surveyed the empty landscape and wondered again how I’d get home. I could call a cab. Surely the dispatcher would know where this old park was located? That would certainly be the normal—rational—thing to do.

  But then I thought about what Hallow had said about his little gift. Why not test out the traveling-through-thought thing? What if it wasn’t just a one-shot deal? It had worked before, although, granted, by accident. Was I refusing to try just because Hallow suggested I should? There was definitely that. Could any good possibly come from following the advice of a murdering lunatic? Maybe he was setting me up. My attempt to replicate my previous experience would no doubt amuse him. He’d probably get a kick out of watching me fail. Vampire or not, sociopaths shared some characteristics in common. Characteristics I was very familiar with.

  Wait a minute. What if I got caught in some weird vortex of time and space? I didn’t know enough about how vampires manipulated energy to have any options for rescuing myself if I got stuck between dimensions. A particularly gruesome episode of Star Trek came to mind where, due to a transporter malfunction, some poor man screamed as his molecules were wrenched apart and scattered into the universe. Sometimes I wished I didn’t have such a fertile imagination. I was sure there were worse ways to slough off this mortal coil, although I couldn’t think of any at the moment.

  Actually, I’d be more comfortable if there was some kind of contraption to step into like on the television show. Solid walls and a floor to stand on. Someone in charge of the process. Just intending to blink from one place to another seemed like leaping into a bottomless abyss and hoping for the best.

  But, despite my rational fears about transcending consensus reality, my sensing system was eager to give it a go. My intuition chimed in, nodding its head, willing to sign off on the experiment. Or maybe that was Rebel’s voice. Hard to tell. It was getting so crowded in my psyche that I wasn’t sure which part of me was at the controls. But who was I to quibble about a tiny thing like my molecules scattering to the winds?

  I closed my eyes, visualized my favorite chair in my living room, and scrunched my face into a serious pose of concentration. After a few seconds, when I didn’t feel the usual breeze against my face, I opened one eye to investigate. I was still frozen in the same spot, all the muscles in my body tightly contracted like I was braced for attack.

  Well, shit. I was obviously doing it wrong. How had I managed it before? I’d just thought about the location of my purse and briefcase and found myself there. I forced myself to relax my shoulders, circled my head to release the tension, and shook my hands in front of me to restore the circulation.

  Okay. All I needed to do was think about sitting on my oversize chair, putting my feet up on the ottoman, and drinking a glass of wine. Yeah, that felt good. I’d just smiled at the pleasant vision when my solar plexus began to itch, my hair blew back from my face, and I had the sense of being in an elevator again. Falling without a parachute for a nanosecond. The next thing I knew, I was flat on the floor next to my chair. I huffed out a breath at the rude landing, raised my head to look around, then sat up.

  The living room light was on. I must have forgotten to turn it off when I left with Maxie. I slowly climbed to my feet, patted myself down to make sure—as before—that all of me had arrived in the same time zone and zip code, and smiled.

  “Hot damn! I did it! At least there’s one good thing that came from all the vampire crap!” I promised myself I’d enjoy this mysterious ability for as long as it lasted.

  Caution pursed her lips and gave me a disapproving scowl. Which I ignored.

  I danced around in a circle, chuckling, threw off the heavy parka, and moved to the stairs leading up to my bedroom and bath. And froze. Was my shower running? Had I left it on? What the hell was the matter with me? I’d never done anything like that.

  Stress hormones surged through my body and the indicator on my radar shot from zero to a thousand, letting me know in no uncertain terms that something was wrong. My fight-or-flight instinct shifted into high gear.

  Remembering the gun in the pocket of the coat, I tiptoed over t
o where I’d thrown the bulky garment, retrieved the gun, and crept to the staircase. Holding the gun with a trembling hand, I climbed the stairs, cursing under my breath at every creaking sound my footsteps made. I paused halfway, noticing the light was on in the bathroom and the door was open.

  I sneaked up the rest of the way, preparing to walk along the short hallway, and was startled by a loud noise. Since I often made that noise myself, I recognized the clatter of a bar of soap hitting the bottom of the shower. Somebody was in my damn shower! I paused, straining to remember if any visitors were expected from out of town, or if I’d given my house key to anyone recently. No one came to mind.

  I lifted the gun, held it with both hands in a futile effort to stop the shaking, and stood in the bathroom doorway.

  The water suddenly stopped and I waited through a few seconds of heavy silence. A hand whisked back the shower curtain, causing a loud ripping sound, and a wet, naked man grinned from inside.

  “Kismet! Surprise!”

  Chapter Nine

  I automatically raised the gun with trembling hands and pointed it at the chest of the intruder.

  He lifted his arms into the air and widened his smile. “Hey, don’t shoot me. I’m not immortal yet.”

  His skin was lighter than I’d ever seen it, and his black hair had grown well below his shoulders, but as I slid my gaze down his lean frame, I recognized a familiar body part. We hadn’t seen each other for five months—and it had been a lot longer than that since I’d hung out with the portion of his anatomy in question—but there was no mistaking the unique endowment of my superficial, materialistic, narcissistic ex-boyfriend, Dr. Thomas Radcliffe.

  I lowered the gun. Relief swamped me and I stared into mischievous dark brown eyes.

  “Tom? What the hell are you doing here?”

  My naked visitor flashed an even-more-blinding Hollywood smile. “Didn’t you get my message? I told you I want to talk to Devereux. Zoë tells me he’s the big vampire cheese.”

  I struggled to keep a stern expression on my face, but couldn’t quite manage due to the fact that “Tom Junior,” as he used to call it, was twitching and bobbing like a dowsing rod. Almost as if it was trying to say hello in its own fleshy way. I couldn’t seem to shift my gaze. The kinesthetic memory was so strong that my hand almost reached out to pat the little guy’s head. To keep myself from doing something I was certain I’d regret—same old song, different verse—I grabbed a towel from the nearby rack and shoved it at Tom.

  He smirked as he dried his hair, aware of his effect on me.

  I cleared my throat and glared. “How the hell did you get into my house? I’m absolutely sure I locked the door when I left.”

  He threw the towel on the floor and stepped out of the shower. Junior was displaying his best posture, apparently happy to see me. “Zoë brought me. It was amazing. She just thought us here all the way from Los Angeles. Hanging out with vampires is so awesome.” He chuckled. “Listen to me telling the big vampire cheese’s girlfriend about hanging around with vampires.” He looked me up and down. “What’s that all over your sweater? And your jeans? Have you been partaking in Cow Town’s favorite sport, mud wrestling?” He threw back his head and laughed. “I would’ve paid money to see that.”

  I glanced down at the dried blood on my clothes. Tom’s obliviousness saved me from having to give any normal explanations. “Very funny.”

  He closed the distance between us and pulled me into a wet hug, apparently not concerned about the “mud” on my shirt. “It’s great to see you, Kismet. I’ve missed you.”

  I pushed against his chest with my free hand, forcing him to back up. Yeah, he missed me. That was code for “I need something from you.”

  “Dial down the Don Juan routine, Doctor Hollywood. Even if I weren’t already involved with the big cheese, I wouldn’t play slap and tickle with you or Tom Junior. That’s ancient history. So, where’s Zoë? At The Crypt?”

  Tom had met Zoë the night we’d gone to Devereux’s club, The Crypt. He’d shown up on my doorstep and invited himself along on my date with Alan Stevens, an FBI profiler working on the serial murder case that almost got me killed. Prior to that, I hadn’t seen Tom for a couple of years and was surprised he was interested in my vampire-wannabe research. That night had been his first exposure to the undead underworld. Obviously, something about the lifestyle appealed to him, because he and the attractive Zoë had taken off for California without even saying good-bye.

  Not that I expected anything different. Tom and I shared a profession, and we’d spent a lot of years together as a couple. But Tom’s philosophy was “so many women, so little time,” and we’d parted—not completely amicably—almost three years earlier. It took me a while to heal from the disappointment, but now—aside from a little residual lust—I couldn’t remember what I ever saw in him. He was the poster boy for Narcissistic Personality Disorder. In his mind, the universe revolved around Tom Radcliffe.

  He let his arms drop away from me and ran his hands through his long, wet hair. “Uh-huh, she’s using one of Devereux’s extra coffins. I hear he keeps a few vacant to accommodate out-of-towners.”

  I nodded. “Yeah, it’s a regular bloodsucking Holiday Inn.”

  Tom laughed and pointed to the bathroom door. “Hand me my clothes, will you? They’re hanging on the hook.”

  I grabbed his designer jeans and trendy T-shirt. “Why did you need to take a shower? Or, more important, why did you need to take a shower here? Why didn’t you get a hotel room?”

  And where’s your underwear?

  He tugged on his jeans, zipped up slowly, and smiled. “Well, I came here instead of getting a room because Zoë said Devereux practically lives here, and I do intend to talk to him. I needed a shower because Zoë and I … well, we entertained ourselves, and I needed to freshen up.”

  “Oh, yuck! Just exactly where did you entertain yourselves?” I had disgusting visions of DNA stains on my bedding or couch. Or on my carpet! I was going to mention the filmy, blood-colored blotches now decorating his wet chest from his contact with my ruined sweater, but he slid his green T-shirt on before I could form the words.

  He frowned. “For your information, I spread a towel on your bed before we used it. Oh, that reminds me. I need to pop that towel into your washing machine. You do have one, don’t you?”

  A low, rumbling voice whispered in my mind, “Dispose of this idiot.”

  Without any conscious thought, my fingers tightened around the handle of the pistol I still held. I stared at Tom and, for a few seconds, seriously considered shooting him. Some evil part of my brain smiled as it imagined inflicting a scar that would mar the perfection of his face or a wound that would forever alter the lovely lines of his body. I’d just begun to fantasize about him falling to the floor in a spreading pool of his own blood, when he snapped his fingers in front of my face.

  “Hey, Kismet. Are you in there?”

  I startled, my consciousness snapping back into place like a stretched rubber band being released. Back from where, I didn’t know, but only a second before I could’ve sworn I’d heard familiar laughter.

  “What?” I glanced down at the gun in my hand, noticing I clutched the handle so tightly all the color had left my skin, and the weapon was pointed at Tom.

  He smirked. “I’m into playing cops and robbers as much as the next guy, but if you’re going to hold me at gunpoint, I can think of better rooms to do it in.” He cocked his head and frowned. “You look like you’ve just seen a ghost, or your credit card was declined. What’s going on?”

  I’m losing my mind.

  I forced myself to lower the hand holding the gun. I raised my eyes to his, almost afraid my homicidal daydream would commandeer my brain again, but I didn’t experience any more violent urges. He stood, staring at me, the same self-absorbed, thoughtless man he’d always been. I might still harbor some resentment for the way he broke up with me, but we had so much shared history, I’d long since relegat
ed him to the category of old friend. I even enjoyed his company sometimes. Even at my angriest, I’d never had such ferocious thoughts about Tom. Or anyone for that matter. I didn’t know how to answer his question because I had no idea what had just happened. There were two therapists in the room, but neither could help me.

  “I’m just tired. Too much mud wrestling.”

  That elicited a smile from him.

  “I need to see this infamous towel.” I marched next door to my bedroom, flicked on the light, and studied the large purple towel covering my bed. Gross. It would definitely need the heavy-duty wash cycle. Repeatedly.

  Tom crept up behind me, pressed himself against my body, and rested his chin on my shoulder. He whispered close to my ear, “See? Nothing on the bed. Everything on the towel. Neat and tidy. I’m nothing if not efficient.”

  I smiled and shook my head. What an idiot. I couldn’t decide if I wanted to slug him or give him a knee to the balls. In the most friendly way, of course. He was lucky I was too tired to act on either option.

  I turned to him and pointed at the towel. “Pick up your mess and come with me.”

  He retrieved the towel, holding the corner with two fingers, and followed me downstairs to the washing machine. I was tempted to simply throw it away instead of going to the trouble of washing it, but it was one of the plush towels my parents had given me for my birthday last year and I hated to part with it.

  I left him to deal with the remains of his entertainment, detoured over to where I’d thrown Maxie’s parka, and returned the gun to the pocket. Completely wiped out, I shuffled into the kitchen, where I sat at the table, staring off into space. I was too wired to sleep, but so exhausted I couldn’t imagine doing anything else.

  Tom ambled into the room, leaned against a counter, and grinned. “You look like hell. And you smell funky—like smoke and … blood. Where were you tonight? Some wild vampire orgy? Wait—you were at some mud-wrestling vampire orgy.” He laughed at his pitiful remarks, as usual, thinking everything he said was stand-up comedy material.