After looking around a bit more, I hurried to the bathroom then walked back to the table, constantly scanning the dark room for the maniac. By the time I sat down, I’d half-convinced myself I was just seeing things that weren’t there. A trick of the flashing lights in my eyes.
Shaking my head to clear some of the alcohol haze, I tried to logically dissect the situation. Either I’d had so much wine that I’d imagined my worst nightmare or I’d really seen him. Since I didn’t know which option was true, obviously I needed an outside opinion. I pulled out my cell phone to call Alan, still searching the crowd for the dreaded face, but I couldn’t get a signal. Damn. I’d have to see if Michael’s phone could pick up in here.
“Listen,” I started, hoping he wouldn’t ask me to explain, “I’ve just remembered I need to leave someone a message and my cell phone’s dead—can I borrow yours? I’ll only be a moment.”
“Sure.” He dug out his iPhone and handed it over. “My turn for the john,” he added, leaping off the chair and threading his way to the men’s room.
Alan must have been using his phone because I went immediately to voice mail.
“Alan?” I slurred, yelling over the music. “Hey, it’s me. Kismet. I’m at a disco down the street from the hotel and I might have seen Lucifer. He might be here in the club. I’ve had a little wine … well, okay, a lot of wine, and I’m not sure if I saw him or if he was a figment of my pickled brain. Can you come over and see if he’s here?”
I disconnected then said, “Okay, bye.”
The full glass of wine in front of me on the table no longer held any appeal, and I pushed it away.
Too bad there wasn’t a cell phone number I could call to reach Devereux. I was sure he had one, but he’d never given it to me. Why should he? He’d assumed he would always be able to read my mind and know exactly what I was thinking before I did.
Remembering the cross, I tugged it from underneath my blouse, held it in my hand, and said his name silently. I waited expectantly for him to pop in. Nothing. Then I tapped the bejeweled thing, saying, “Hello? Devereux? Come in, Devereux.” I raised it to my ear, listening for a few seconds before shoving it back under my shirt.
“Damn necklaces! What good are they? One has to be touched directly, and the other apparently doesn’t work at all!”
“Who are you talking to?” Michael asked as he plopped onto his seat.
“Myself, of course. Drunk people do it all the time.” I handed his phone back. “Thanks for this.”
He tucked it away and stood up again. “Ready to get back on the dance floor?” he hollered over the music.
“No. I think we should go back to the hotel now.”
“What? Why? We’re having fun. Aren’t you having fun?”
I couldn’t tell him the real reason I wanted to leave, and my addled brain wasn’t capable of thinking fast enough to make up anything beyond one level of truth. “I’ve drunk too much. I need to go and sleep this off.”
He held out his hand. “In that case it’s even more important you dance off some more of the alcohol. Come on, just a little while longer.”
Staying really didn’t sound like a good idea, but since I’d called Alan and asked him to come, maybe I should wait a bit before leaving. Might as well take Michael’s advice and burn off some more of the wine while I watched for the fiend.
I nodded, and he gave a thumbs-up gesture, then pulled me into the writhing crowd. We danced through several more songs. Michael was having such a good time that he didn’t appear to notice my preoccupation.
The DJ was talking into his microphone, and I looked up at the stage. Lurking in the corner, partially hidden by the black drapes, was Lucifer.
I stumbled and blinked a couple of times. He was gone. I hated the thought that the disgusting bloodsucker was in my brain. He wasn’t the kind of fantasy image I wanted to conjure for myself.
Clearly I had to extricate myself from the madness. If I kept on stressing about Lucifer and all the other vampire crap, I’d either have a stroke or a psychotic break. If I hadn’t already.
“What’s going on, Kismet?” Michael said. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“The lights and shadows are playing tricks on me.” That was true as far as it went.
We danced through several more songs, Michael giggling and acting like a kid. I focused on contacting Alan and wished my life was as carefree as the lives of the other dancers appeared to be.
Come on, Alan! Call me! Why aren’t my mystical psychic powers working this time? And why don’t you check your voice mail?
Over the next half hour I imagined seeing Lucifer several more times. Once I thought I saw him actually imitate John Travolta’s Saturday Night Fever dance pose from the movie poster tacked on the wall near the women’s bathroom. I probably hadn’t really seen that, either.
Under any other circumstance something so ludicrous would have been funny, but now I interpreted the vision as more evidence of the destruction of my brain. Each sighting lasted a few seconds then faded away—a sure sign of a hallucination. I grew so used to glimpsing his ghastly form among the dancers that at one point I wondered if he’d died and become a wispy apparition and that’s why I could see him. Wishful thinking.
The DJ played a slow song, and Michael slid his arms around me.
“What are you doing?” I asked, leaning back.
“Don’t you like to slow dance?” He pulled me close again.
“No—I mean, yes—but I don’t want to.” I pushed against his chest. “I want to leave now.” Obviously, nobody was coming to help.
He released me and stared at my face. “You do look wiped out. We’d better get you back to the hotel.”
“Thank you.” Would the Lucifer hallucination follow me back to my room?
He took my hand and walked me over to our table. A horrible odor wafted into my nose.
“Jesus H. Christ,” Michael said. “Either the toilet’s backed up or someone’s had an accident on the floor.”
I spun a little too quickly to investigate, lost my balance, and pushed my palms out in front of me to catch myself. They came to rest on the foul, blistered chest of the bald lunatic Lucifer. The moment I touched him, my gaze flicked up to his, which widened in surprise. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw someone who looked like Devereux reaching for Lucifer.
Then I felt the familiar sense of being in an elevator as I shifted through space.
Everything went dark.
Chapter 14
Incredibly cold.
That was my first realization as I woke outside, sprawled on my back in the snow on the frozen ground, half under a bush.
My body was shaking so hard my heels were clicking against the ice.
The last thing I remembered was being in the disco and imagining seeing Lucifer again. No, wait—that wasn’t a hallucination. It was real. I touched him. I had disgusting decomposing death-cooties on my hands. He must have taken me somewhere. What happened to Michael? Did the monster kill him? And all the people in the club? Was Devereux really there?
I scooted out from underneath the bush and sat up. I definitely wasn’t in the club anymore. The movement caused my headache to explode and my stomach to heave. Grabbing my hair, I leaned to the side just in time to throw up on the ground next to me.
After everything that was going to come up did so, I dragged myself a few inches away, then pulled my hair back into a ponytail and shoved it inside the collar of my blouse. I wanted to be ready in case my stomach went for an encore.
As I sat, trembling and trying to catch my breath, an old homeless man dressed in a ragged coat, duct-taped plastic boots, and one tattered glove wandered over and stared down at me. We looked at each other for a few seconds, then he held out a filthy rag.
He’d probably seen me vomit and wanted to offer his … handkerchief … for me to wipe my mouth. I really didn’t want to touch the dirty fabric, but even in my discombobulated state I couldn’t bring myself to
be rude.
“Thank you,” I said, reaching up for the rag.
My hand went right though it.
I let my arm drop and looked at the phantom. He continued to shake the rag in my face, a sad expression on his. Apparently he really was trying to help.
“Thanks, I appreciate it. But if you really want to help me, tell me where I am or how to get back to the Briarwood Hotel.”
He nodded vigorously and shook the rag to my right, also pointing with his other hand.
“The hotel is that way?” I said, looking in the direction he’d indicated, shivering so badly I could barely speak.
He jerked his head and pointed again.
I climbed to my feet, managed to remain vertical, and started stumbling in that direction. I turned around to thank him again and he was gone.
At least throwing up and freezing had taken the edge off my intoxication, and I soon realized I was in a park. The logical assumption would be that I was in Central Park, but there was no limit to how far in time or space Lucifer might have transported me. I wondered how long I’d been lying on the ground, and how quickly someone could die from hypothermia. Why had he taken me, then abandoned me? The last time he kidnapped me, he’d held me captive in an ancient crypt filled with dead bodies. This experience was anticlimactic, to say the least.
What did it mean that I was getting used to all the vampire insanity? Had I resolved myself to my doom?
But logic prevailed. I was in Central Park, and a short walk brought me out of the trees directly across from the nightclub. Michael was standing in front, clutching my belongings to his chest.
“Kismet!” he yelled when he saw me. Dodging cars, he ran across the street, dropped my clothes in a heap, then threw his arms around me. “Christ, Kismet—where the fuck did you go? One minute you were there, and the next you were gone. Did that big ugly guy pull you out of the club? I didn’t even have time to react.”
I tried to talk, but my teeth were chattering too hard.
“Shit. You’re freezing.” He quickly dressed me in my jacket, then tugged on my coat, stuck the knit hat on my head, and wound the scarf around my neck. Then he wrapped me in his arms again. “You really scared the fuck out of me. Let’s go back to the hotel and warm you up.”
“How long was I gone?” I mumbled.
“About twenty minutes. I was ready to call the police.”
What the hell? Why did Lucifer snatch me if he was only going to drop me in the park? Maybe he was losing more of his mind than he’d already lost. Lucky for me.
My legs were stiff, and my feet were blocks of ice, so I couldn’t move very quickly. Michael pulled me along with his arm around my shoulders. Instead of trying to weave through the cars as he had before, we hurried along to a crossing and waited for the light to change, then hustled across. We made it to the hotel faster than it had taken us to walk in the other direction hours earlier.
It occurred to me that I probably didn’t smell very good after hurling in the park, but there wasn’t anything I could do about it for the moment.
Michael kept up a running monologue during the whole trip. “I feel like such a wimpy asshole, not even able to keep you safe in a crowded nightclub. Some friend I am. I wouldn’t blame you if you never wanted to have anything to do with me again. I was afraid New York City would be dangerous. Now I’m acting like the stereotype of a gay drama queen, but I don’t care. Did he hurt you? Oh, God, I’ll bet he did. We probably need to go to the hospital to have you checked out. …”
I tuned out after that. I didn’t have any idea what had happened.
We crossed the lobby, called the elevator, and rode up to my floor. Nobody held their noses and ran away, so maybe I wasn’t as stinky as I feared.
Pausing in front of my door, Michael said, “Where’s your keycard?”
I slowly flexed my still-frozen fingers to make them useful, unbuttoned my coat, then reached into my jeans pocket for the card and handed it to Michael. He opened the door, and we were both surprised to see Alan sitting on the edge of the bed, watching television.
Alan smiled, then took a better look at me and my companion, frowned, and strode over to us. “What the hell, Kismet? What’s wrong? Who is this guy? Where have you been? I’ve been waiting for hours.”
“I ca … ca … ca …” I said, unable to force my lips to form the words to let him know I’d tried to call him.
“Ca ca? What?” Alan asked, sounding exasperated.
“I’m Doctor Michael Parker, a colleague of Kismet’s. You must be her FBI friend,” Michael said as he guided me over to the bed and sat me down. “We went to a nightclub, and something weird happened. One minute she was there, and the next she was gone.”
Alan knelt in front of me and said in a hostile tone, “What’s he talking about?”
My teeth were still chattering so I just shook my head.
“Let’s get her something warm to drink, and I’ll tell you what little I know.” Michael headed over to the shelves under the television and retrieved the coffee and tea supplies. He opened a tea bag, set it in a cup, pulled a bottle of water from the mini-refrigerator, poured the water, and put the cup in the microwave. The height of efficiency.
Alan followed Michael’s movements, scowling. “What were you two doing at a dance club?”
“Dancing,” I croaked.
“Very funny,” Alan said, giving Michael the evil eye. “I meant, why were you with him?”
I pointed to the blanket folded at the foot of the other bed. Alan grabbed it and tucked it around me.
“Thank you,” I said, starting to thaw out.
When the microwave dinged, Michael fetched the tea. “Oh, now this is just a little too hot.” He poured some of the remaining cold bottled water into the tea. “Okay, I think this is good. Here, Kismet.” He handed me the cup and sat on the bed next to me.
Not to be outdone, Alan sat on my other side.
Michael patted my knee, and Alan made a growling sound.
“Michael, is it?” Alan said.
Michael nodded and looked annoyed.
I wrapped my hands around the steaming cup and drank my tea, wishing they’d both be quiet. I didn’t have the energy to deal with a testosterone-fueled pissing contest. I’d have to get Michael out of the room pretty soon so I could talk to Alan about whatever bizarre thing happened with Lucifer.
“Just how good a friend of Kismet’s are you?” Alan asked, his tone unfriendly.
“We met on the plane coming to the conference.” Michael cleared his throat. “I didn’t catch your name.”
“Special Agent Alan Stevens. Doctor Stevens.”
Geez. This mine is bigger competition could go on all night.
“I can take it from here, Doctor Parker.” Alan rubbed his hand up and down my back.
“I really think I ought to stay for a while, Agent Stevens, just to make sure Doctor Knight is okay.”
“I’ll make sure she’s okay, so—”
Now sufficiently thawed and irritated, I got up, kicked the blanket out of the way, and set the remaining tea on the cabinet. I walked into the bathroom and heard Alan say my name as the door clicked shut. They were still arguing as I turned on the hot water in the shower. The sound of the spray drowned out their voices.
While the room filled with steam, I brushed my teeth—twice—then swished mouthwash. I undressed and stepped gratefully into the shower.
It took several minutes of standing in the hot water before I finally felt defrosted all the way to my bones. My hair smelled like grease from sitting so close to the kitchen at the dance club so I washed and conditioned it, then soaped my body. By the time I stepped out, I felt mostly human again. Except for the unavoidable effects of having ingested too many glasses of wine. My stomach was churning, and my head throbbed. I knew I’d be hungover in the morning—if I made it through the night.
I turned off the water and listened. Surely they couldn’t still be arguing after all the time I’d bee
n in the bathroom. Silence. Maybe they were gone. I rooted through my cosmetic case, found the aspirin bottle, and took four pills. The aspirin wouldn’t keep me from reaping the rewards of my idiotic behavior, but it might control the headache. I always hated the floaty, surreal feeling I got when I overindulged.
“Crap,” I said aloud, when I remembered I didn’t have any clean clothes in the bathroom. I wrapped a large, thick towel around me, then wrangled a wide-toothed pick through my snarled hair.
Figuring I might as well get it over with, I opened the door and stuck my head out, expecting—due to the quiet—to find an empty room.
Alan and Michael were still sitting on the end of the bed, where I’d left them. They wore matching scowling expressions as they stared at the muted television.
They both looked at me when I entered, then their mouths dropped open. I guess they hadn’t expected me to walk out in a towel.
I went to the closet, pulled the fluffy white robe off the hanger, and slipped it on. With my back to them, I released the towel and tossed it into the bathroom, then tied the robe’s belt securely around my waist.
“How do you feel?” Michael asked at the same time Alan said, “Are you okay?”
Feeling both relaxed and sleepy, I shuffled over to the couch by the window and sat. “I’m fine. Yes, I’m okay.”
“What happened?” Michael asked. “Do you remember?”
I shot Alan a covert look to let him know there was more to the story, then said to Michael, “I don’t know what happened. Maybe I just drank too much and wandered out of the club. You shouldn’t feel badly, Michael—it was my own fault for drinking half the club’s wine supply.”
He shook his head, a clear look of disbelief on his face. “No. I don’t think so. I saw that big bald guy behind you. You pushed him, and then you both … disappeared. You didn’t leave the club by yourself, I’m sure.”
Great. I had no desire to be rude, but the last thing I wanted to do was try to make up some lame story for Michael’s benefit.
Blood Therapy (Kismet Knight, Ph.D., Vampire Psychologist) Page 20
