Dark Harvest

by Lynda Hilburn

  She hobbled to the front door. “Thanks. You’re being a good sport about the whole abandoning-you thing. I won’t forget it. I’ll be in touch. See ya.”

  She left, closing the door behind her. I hurried over and locked it.

  I really felt terrible about lying to Maxie. I knew it was for a good cause, but I didn’t care for the ease with which the fictions rolled off my tongue. I’d always worked hard to be an ethical person. What did it mean that I could set those standards aside? What was I becoming?

  I returned to the kitchen, refilled my coffee mug, and grabbed a bagel from the counter. Sitting at the table, I thought about all the madness that had taken place during the previous twenty-four hours. Like a slap to the head, I remembered I hadn’t called the police about Carson’s body at the amusement park. I must have brain damage. I jumped up, found the phone, and checked the time. At least sixteen hours had passed since I transported myself home. Maybe someone else had notified the authorities.

  Or, maybe there was a rotting media-personality corpse in the fun house.

  I sat at my desk and turned on the computer. If the body had been found, there would be local news stories. I searched the local newspapers’ Web sites and came up empty. Googling Carson brought up lots of hits, but they were all about his radio antics. I even scanned the obituaries without finding a familiar name.

  Since it didn’t appear anyone had been informed about Carson, I decided to drive over to the convenience store down the street and use the pay phone to make an anonymous call. No matter what my opinion was about the rude radio host, I couldn’t just forget his body was at the amusement park. Surely he must have family, or friends, or someone who cared about what happened to him. I moved a couple of steps from the desk and once again slammed into the chest of the silver-eyed lunatic, who’d popped into my personal space, grinning, silent as death.

  I gasped and reflexively tried to back up. He grabbed my upper arms, holding me with unyielding fingers. It was a good thing I’d recently emptied my bladder, or I would have replicated the peeing-on-the-carpet scene from The Exorcist. The vampire’s energy felt dark and dangerous, which pretty much described his appearance, as well. He’d replaced the genie pants with tight jeans and a red T-shirt tucked in at his trim waistline. His waist-length, dark hair flowed down his muscular chest. The fiend was even more gorgeous than I remembered.

  Tilting his head from side to side, he studied me. “Dr. Knight—or may I call you Kismet, since we’ve become such good friends?” His deep voice caused my ears to buzz and goose bumps to rise on my skin. He released my arms, stepped away, then strolled in a circle around me. “Obviously you weren’t expecting company. What on earth is that appalling pink thing you’re wearing? And I must say that whoever did your hair should be gutted.” He laughed, the sound both pleasant and terrifying.

  I licked my lips so I could speak. “What do you want?”

  He smiled, exposing impressive fangs. “I want so many things, my sweet Kismet. And I intend to have all of them. But you were doing so much mental fussing about the remains of our dearly departed, that I felt duty bound to come and inform you the matter has been dealt with. There is no reason to involve human police. I might have need of that location again, so I’d prefer it to be undisturbed.”

  He inched in closer, riveted his gaze on mine, and my knees buckled. I lost control of my muscles and bones. He slid an arm around my waist and caught me before I collapsed. My heart sped up, beating so frantically I feared it would burst out of my chest, my breathing went shallow, and my limbs felt heavy. Holding me with one arm, he untied my robe, and slid the fabric off each shoulder, leaving my naked body exposed.

  I wanted to scream, fight, or do anything except stand there, frozen, but my brain was off-line. Cotton candy filled the places in my skull that were formerly occupied by my cerebral cortex, firing neurons and brain chemicals.

  He leaned in, his soft hair streaming across my body, and kissed me. The touch was electric. Literally. As if I’d come in contact with a live wire. Currents of energy flowed along my skin, pulsating in the area between my legs. I moaned. I didn’t know where his other hand was. It seemed to be everywhere at once. I’d never had an orgasm while paralyzed before—I wouldn’t have thought it possible—but somehow it was happening. He eased the pressure of his kiss, flicked his tongue along my lower lip, shifted his mouth down to my neck, and bit me. The feeling of his fangs penetrating my vein was indefinable. If I’d experimented with hallucinogens, I might have had something to compare the sensations to, but since I hadn’t, I simply surrendered into the ecstatic bliss vibrating through my body. It was as if my neck had become a hyper-potent erogenous zone. My body convulsed with the most powerful orgasm I’d ever experienced. The rational part of me made futile attempts to gain control. Whimpers erupted from my lips, and I wondered who was making all the noise. He drew me in tight against him while he fed. I’m not sure I would’ve moved even if I could’ve.

  Then everything went dark.

  Chapter Eleven

  Silently arguing with myself about whether or not waking was worth the effort, I swam against the tide, forced myself to become fully conscious, and opened my eyes. For the second time, Luna’s face peered down at me. She didn’t speak, but her expression was solemn and serious, and for a moment, I thought I saw fear in her eyes.

  “Luna, what …”

  She vanished.

  I blinked a few times to clear the fog from my vision. What the hell was going on? Why did I feel so strange? Had Luna, the vampire Kali, really been here, or had I imagined it? I looked down at myself to discover I was sitting naked in my oversize chair, my pink robe discarded on the floor. I rubbed my eyes, trying to orient myself. I didn’t remember sitting in the chair. Why would I do that? I had to go upstairs and get dressed for my midnight meeting with Devereux at The Crypt. I slanted my eyes to the clock.

  “Shit. It’s already midnight. What the hell is wrong with me?”

  I stood slowly, making sure my legs were solid enough to navigate the stairs, and shuffled in that direction. I sucked in a few deep breaths and more of my fragmented reality coalesced. It occurred to me that my shaky state might be caused by low blood sugar due to lack of food, so I diverted to the kitchen, opened the refrigerator, and grabbed the orange juice container. Since rummaging for a glass seemed like too much work, I just untwisted the cap and drank directly from the carton. Something I’d never done before. The natural fructose had an immediate stabilizing effect and I felt better. I threw together a peanut butter sandwich, then sat at the table and devoured it with enthusiasm. It had been almost twenty-four hours since I’d eaten, and my last meal had consisted of half a container of Chinese food. No wonder I felt so surreal. Considering that, nodding off wasn’t such a strange thing.

  As I sat there, something nagged at my brain—distracting me like a little kid tugging at the hem of my mental skirt. What had I been doing before I fell asleep? Wasn’t I going to call someone about something? Yes! Carson’s body. But wait. Why was I going to do that? His body had been taken care of, hadn’t it? I couldn’t seem to recall why I thought I needed to do anything.

  I shook my head, noticed I’d managed to dribble orange juice down the front of my nude body, and laughed, flicking the drops away with my fingers. “You’re losing it, Kismet. Get off your ass and get dressed. The master has commanded your presence!”

  Thinking about Devereux sobered me and reminded me that I hadn’t seen him since before the insanity at the fun house. What should I tell him about my bizarre encounter with Hallow? Shit, wait a minute. I wouldn’t have to tell him anything because he’d just pluck it out of my brain. And, as soon as he read my thoughts and scanned my memories, he’d insist on locking me away. I couldn’t blame him for his instincts, but I needed to hold onto as much self-control as possible.

  Nor did I want to be sucked into Hallow’s evil universe. He’d publicly killed Carson in a maniacal frenzy, and I had no doubt inflic
ting torture and pain was one of his favorite recreational activities. If it was true that he drained the life force from all the women he collected, I wasn’t about to sign up for a demonstration. No matter how amazing a lover he supposedly was.

  Maybe it would be better for me to stay home, do some client paperwork, and then talk to Devereux about moving into his penthouse for a while. Yes. That was the answer. Caution. Sensible, mature caution. I needed to behave responsibly. Like a thoughtful professional. I was totally out of my depth with the undead assassin and nothing but misery would come from making myself available to him, even inadvertently.

  No matter how intriguing I found the undead, there was no reason to get more involved in the vampire horror show than I already was. Choosing to be careful had nothing to do with giving up my independence. It was all about securing my survival. I wasn’t too proud to admit I was in over my head. I’d been incredibly naïve to think I could deal with a monster like Hallow. But in my defense, I actually had learned a lot from our brief interaction. The vampire version of psychosis was beyond anything the psychological establishment understood, and I now had a front-row seat for the case study of the century.

  A bloodsucking Charles Manson.

  It was frustrating to have nobody to discuss my experiences with. My professional self was fascinated by the behavioral aspects of Hallow’s madness, but the personal me wanted to hide under the bed. If I ever had a client in the same incredible situation as I found myself, what would I say? That was a no-brainer. I’d tell her to take the first plane out of Denver. I wouldn’t be heading to the airport, but I could remove myself physically from the freak show.

  Fortunately, Devereux wasn’t part of what I wanted to leave behind.

  With the issue firmly settled in my mind, I brushed the bread crumbs off my breasts, fetched my pink robe from the living room floor, and slipped it on. I tied the belt, walked to my desk to begin the paperwork, and froze. My scalp tingled and my eyes blurred.

  “Fuck that! I’m going to The Crypt to have some fun.” Fuck that? What?

  I knew the words had come out of my mouth, but I hadn’t intended to say them. Hadn’t even felt the potential thought lurking in my mind. But now, suddenly, it was clear. Of course. Why the hell should I stay home? I didn’t need to think about any vampire’s opinions or actions. I was an adult, professional woman who could make her own decisions.

  Grinning, I peeled off the robe, turned, and strode up the stairs.

  * * *

  The Crypt was a gothic wonderland. Devereux had transformed an old, multi-level church into a playground for the children of darkness. The huge building itself was magnificent, with its ornate towers, spires, and archways. Grotesque gargoyles leered down from corners, loomed over doorways, and peeked out from hidden architectural surprises. The extensive stained glass alone was worth the visit. The original, religious-themed panels had been replaced by paranormal and supernatural renderings. Eerie gravestone-laden cemeteries were a pervasive theme. That and scads of blood.

  The club was open every day from dusk to dawn and it was always busy, but the Saturday night crowds gave new meaning to the word packed. I’d left my car down the block in the underground parking for my office and jogged toward the building, eager to join the festivities. As I approached the entrance, the usual smell of marijuana and other smokable substances wafted into my nose, and the intense, pulsating rhythm from the heavy-metal band performing inside vibrated the bottoms of my feet.

  A cloud of pot smoke enticed my nostrils. I inhaled, smiled, and angled over to the group standing under a streetlight on the sidewalk, toking away. It had been a long time since I’d gotten high and I couldn’t think of a better way to start the night.

  I tapped a seriously stoned, skinny, long-haired, twenty-something guy on the shoulder, and he swiveled his head toward me, his eyelids at half-mast. He blinked a few times, lifted his eyebrows in an obvious attempt to focus his eyes, licked his lips, and spoke. “Uh, what?”

  Giving him my brightest smile, I pointed at the joint. “Could I have a taste of that?”

  He stared at my face, the joint poised in the air partway between us. “Wow. Cool makeup. You look like a movie star.” I didn’t know about the movie star resemblance, but I had been a bit more heavy-handed than usual. Sue me. I had the urge to be dramatic. What the hell? If you hung around with vampires, it was acceptable to let one’s Inner Drama Queen out once in a while.

  A young, shaved-headed fellow wobbling next to him jerked his body in my direction when he heard his friend’s words and shuffled over to see for himself.

  I reached out and lifted the joint from the skinny guy’s fingers, fit it between my lips without giving one thought to hygiene issues, and took a toke. I inhaled the warm smoke into my throat and lungs and held it for exactly two seconds before the acrid substance burst out of my body in a series of hacking, gagging, fifty-year-smoker-type coughs.

  My two companions literally leaned backward, as if my coughing had created a strong enough wind to bend the top portions of their bodies, and they said, simultaneously, “Whoa, dude.”

  Some of the tiny embers from the end of the cigarette fluttered down onto the front of my red, sparkly shirt, and Shaved-Head Guy gallantly attempted to brush them away.

  Probably fearing I’d lose what was left of the joint in my full-body spasm, Skinny Guy reclaimed the pot and pitched in his other hand to help his friend extinguish my chest.

  They both froze, mid-brush, leaned in, and stared at my breasts.

  Another duet, “Oh, wow, man.”

  Skinny Guy said, “You don’t have a bra on, and you can see through that shirt. Awesome. Great tits.”

  I peeled off the hands that were hermetically sealed to my mammary glands, brushed away anything else that didn’t belong on my shirt, and smiled.

  “Yeah, isn’t the blouse gorgeous? There’s a matching bra that goes with it, but I just didn’t want to be constrained tonight. Besides, in the dim light you have to look twice to notice the shirt is transparent. But thanks so much for the hit and for keeping me from setting myself on fire. I’m going to go inside now. It was nice meeting you.” I swiveled toward the club entrance.

  “Wait! Maybe we could hang out a while? Drink some wine? Fuck? You know.”

  I cocked my head, fluttered my cosmetically elongated eyelashes, and smiled. “What a lovely offer, gentlemen. Unfortunately, I already have plans. But I do appreciate the thought.”

  Continuing in the direction of the huge, wooden double doors, I shifted my eyes down to my shirt. It didn’t seem any worse for the pot embers experience. And it was absolutely cool looking. All fresh-blood-colored and glittery. It went great with my short leather skirt and favorite, stiletto-heeled black boots. I’d be Psychologist Ho tonight.

  I reached for the door handle and paused, studying my chest again. Psychologist Ho? Why would I think such a stupid thing? Why was I dressed like this? When did I decide to go out instead of doing paperwork? My stomach tightened with fear. Had my brain skipped a page? A chapter? I knew what a blackout was, and there were several mental and physical illnesses that could account for one. Shit. Maybe I had a brain tumor. There could be something seriously wrong with me. What if I hadn’t nodded off in the living room earlier after all? What if it was something much more dire?

  Looking around, I recognized my location because I’d visited so many times before. But I didn’t remember driving myself there, and I certainly couldn’t recall dressing myself like a street hooker. Well, maybe a call girl, since I had bought the clothes and knew they were expensive. I’d intended to model them for Devereux when we were alone, rather than for hundreds of strangers at his club.

  I pivoted to head back to my car and felt an inner switch flip from on to off. The muscles in my limbs seized. I stood like a statue, not even sure I was breathing. Terrified, I heard a familiar, low voice in my mind: “It’s time for some fun, sweet Kismet. Go into the club and explore your wild nature. Le
ave your inhibitions behind. Entertain me. Make me proud. Give Devereux my best. We will meet again soon.”

  Mild electric current coursed through my body, and my limbs regained function. A fuzzy, almost intoxicated feeling settled over my brain, and I couldn’t stop smiling.

  “Go into the club and have some fun!” I shouted out loud, just in time for Victoria, Devereux’s witchy office manager, to step up next to me.

  “Kismet?” She gave me an eyeball scan, eyebrows raised. Her gaze locked on my chest and she frowned. “Does Devereux know you’re here? Are you aware that you’re wearing a see-through blouse with nothing on underneath?” She stepped back. “And an extremely short skirt? That’s not your usual fashion statement.”

  “Victoria! How wonderful to see you. Did you come to have a little fun, too?”

  She leaned in and sniffed. “Have you been drinking?”

  I hugged her, then shook my head. “Not yet. But the night is young.”

  Her nose wrinkled and she sniffed again. “Pot?”

  “I’ll never tell.”

  She grabbed my arm as I started toward the entrance. “Kismet, wait. Something’s wrong. You feel different to me. Not yourself. Your aura is strange—unusual, murky colors. It’s like there’s something extra. Something dark.”

  “Don’t be silly, my friend.” I patted her hand. “I’m the same ordinary Kismet I’ve always been. Or, at least as ordinary as somebody whose parents named her after an old Broadway musical can be. Come on. Let’s go stir up some trouble.”

  I tugged on the handle of the heavy, wooden door and stepped into a wall of sound. The whine of a high-pitched lead guitar screamed over the throbbing rhythm section as the players cavorted frantically on a stage at the far end of the room. The jarring aural explosion assaulted my ears and took my breath away.

  The club was decorated like a goth’s wet dream, and it had everything a wannabe could desire: scenes from Dracula’s castle, bodies rising from haunted graveyards, and enough black to make Ozzy Osbourne bite the head off of something. The ever-present fog machine pumped out a slithering layer of white smoke, adding an eerie ambience to the shadowy interior, which was lit by modern versions of ancient torches.