The Vampire Shrink Read online

  "A refreshingly original twist on the vampire story.

  Fast-paced and fun."

  -Kelley Armstrong, New York Times bestselling Author

  LYNDA HILBURN

  Medallion Press, Inc. Printed in USA

  5 OUT OF 5 QUILLS

  "THE VAMPIRE SHRINK by Lynda Hilburn is a can't put down, spine-tingling, laugh out loud book that will keep you glued till you turn the final page. Even then I found myself wanting more and pray­ing that there would be a continuation. Devereux is pure delight for the senses, a vampire to delight any woman. Alan is a complex soul that deserves to be explored more thoroughly. And Kismet Knight is the very meat of the story. I love her expressions, her sarcasm and wit, and the inner workings of her mind that are shared with us. I can't wait for more of Kismet! So if you only pick up one vampire book this year, make sure that it is THE VAMPIRE SHRINK by Lynda Hilburn. You won't be disappointed!"

  -Gotta Write Network

  "A very well written horror fantasy! Keeps the reader's eyes glued to the pages up to the very end. Scary yet sensual! The characters seem to leap from the pages. As the plot flows along, the horror deepens. Great intrigue! A marvelous unique writing style causes the suspense to build as the mystery unfolds . . ."

  Wanda Maynard, Simegen.com

  "Lynda Hilburn creates a fascinating world-wicked and sexy!"

  -Kerrelyn Sparks, USA Today Bestselling Author of BE STILL MY VAMPIRE HEART

  "A great blend of humor, horror, and quirky mystery. Fans of Laurell K. Hamilton will love Lynda Hilburn."

  —Jennifer Armintrout, author of BLOOD TIES, BOOK ONE: THE TURNING and BLOOD TIES, BOOK TWO: POSSESSION

  "In THE VAMPIRE SHRINK, Lynda Hilburn takes readers on a well-crafted roller coaster ride where the line between reason and madness blurs and the worlds of science and fantasy collide."

  —Jeanne C. Stein, bestselling author of THE BECOMING

  "Fans of paranormal romance will welcome Lynda Hilburn's steamy new series about a psychologist who finds herself treating an unlikely clientele, who have a lot of serious issues. Hilburn is the latest Denver author to show us a dark, dangerous, and sexy layer under the city's wholesome surface."

  —Marta Acosta, author of MIDNIGHT BRUNCH and

  HAPPY HOUR AT CASA DRACULA

  LYNDA HILBURN

  DEDICATION;

  To my son Daniel, the light of my life.

  Published 2007 by Medallion Press, Inc.

  The MEDALLION PRESS LOGO

  is a registered trademark of Medallion Press, Inc.

  If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as "unsold and destroyed" to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment from this "stripped book."

  Copyright © 2007 by Lynda Hilburn Cover Illustration by Adam Mock

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law.

  Names, characters, places, and incidents arc the products of the author's imagination or arc used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Typeset in Baskerville Printed in the United States of America 10-digit ISBN: 1-9338362-3-7 13-digit ISBN: 978-1933836-23-2

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 First Edition

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS:

  Many thanks to the wonderful people at Medallion Press, who believe in mc and my book, my agents Joshua Bilmes and Steve Mancino, and my supportive, talented critique partners

  Rita Sable, Anna McLain, Jeanine Berry and Patricia Crossley - - who keep me motivated and sane.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Epilogue

  My involvement with vampires began innocently enough. Long before the blood hit the fan, so to speak.

  Like most psychologists, I'd been trained to view the world through a diagnostic lens, hearing my clients' stories through my metaphorical ears, searching out the deeper

  meanings. Thankfully, my tendency to reduce each person to a prevailing neurosis was tempered by my irreverent, dark sense of humor, which kept me from taking myself

  and the world too seriously.

  While I never was as bad as some of my colleagues about believing only in what I could prove—if you couldn't quan­tify it, it wasn't there—I had seen enough bizarre stuff in

  my private psychotherapy practice over the years to make me more skeptical than I was comfortable admitting.

  My private practice had its share of UFO abductees, de­monic possessions, satanic cult survivors, religious cultists, attached entities—all the newest selections on the

  menu of emo­tional and mental pain. Plus, all the "regular" therapy issues.

  So, when I opened the door separating my reception area from my office that fateful Friday to welcome my new client, I was only momentarily surprised. Waiting for me

  was a young woman wearing a long, black dress covered by a dark purple velvet cape. Rings adorned all ten fingers, and a long snake bracelet, with sparkling ruby eyes,

  wound its way up her arm from wrist to elbow. She had waist-length, light brown hair with multi-colored streaks, and she wore white theatrical makeup, dark red lipstick,

  and remarkably lifelike, high-quality, removable fangs.

  My mind began to pick out the various category boxes I could put her into. Hmmm, Goth? Vampire wannabe? Act­ing-out teenager?

  "Please come in and have a seat." I gave my warmest therapy smile and waved my hand in the general direction of the couch and chairs in the center of my office. "I'm Dr.

  Knight. Please call me Kismet."

  That's quite an outfit. Spectacular, really. This sweet, young thing has a flair for the dramatic. What's that delicious fragrance? Sandalwood?

  She walked in silently, handed me the packet of paper­work she'd filled out in the waiting room, and sat down in the chair farthest from where I was standing. Scanning the

  in­formation, I noticed she'd listed her name as Midnight.

  "Midnight? That's a lovely name. Is there a last name?"

  "No. I have no need of anything from my human past," she said, with exaggerated seriousness.

  Okay. Let's not assume the obvious. I chose a chair across from her and picked up my note pad and pen. "Tell me how I can help you."

  "I'm only here because my family made me come. They can't accept my choices and they're hoping you'll talk me out of wanting to be a vampire. They want you to fix

  me." Her voice separated each angry word like little staccato notes.

  She gave me the once-over I'd come to recognize from my younger clients: the smirking scan that evaluated my tai­lored, light blue suit and sensible, black heels and found

 
them hopelessly conventional. Then, inevitably, her eyes moved to my hair, which was very long, curly, and often had a mind of its own. The dissonance between my

  conservative suit and unintentional rock-star hair disrupted the inner picture she was constructing of me. I always enjoy the flash of confusion that washes over their faces

  at that point. My inner trickster is never far away.

  She hiked her dress up until the hem rested on her knees and crossed her legs dramatically. "You're not what I expected."

  I smiled. "What did you expect?"

  "Someone old, with her hair in a bun and no makeup. You're not that much older than me. And you're pretty. You remind me of that singer my mother listens to all the

  time. Sarah Brightman. The one with the long, dark hair and blue eyes."

  "Thank you. I enjoy her, too. Are you comfortable with someone who isn't old and who doesn't have her hair in a bun?"

  She frowned. "I guess so."

  I could see that her need to connect was struggling with her automatic protective defenses, and the jury was out about which one would continue the session.

  "Well, tell me about your desire to be a vampire. How long have you wanted to be one?"

  She tilted her head, pursed her lips and sat silently for a few seconds. Quick flashes of emotion danced across her face as fear, disappointment, and resentment gave way

  to hope.

  "Ever since I met Devereux—or Dev, as we call him— about a year ago/' she said, dreamily.

  Ah, connection won. Maybe she'll let me in.

  "Why would meeting Dev make you want to be a vampire?"

  ''Well, duh, because he is one." She rolled her choco­late-brown eyes, and made that "tsk" sound with her tongue against her teeth.

  I kept the warm smile on my face, and ignored the teen­age angst. "Can you tell me about Dev?"

  She hesitated, staring down at the floor, using the tip of her tongue to play with the fake fangs. "I don't think I'm supposed to talk about him. He wouldn't want me to. He

  says it's better if no one believes vampires really exist."

  Oh, I see. Her sharp little fangs fit perfectly over her own canines, with an almost-invisible band holding them—similar to braces. How clever.

  "Do you believe that vampires really exist?" I tried not to sound as if there was only one right answer to the question.

  "Oh, yes. You wouldn't believe what I've seen. Denver has tons of vampires," she enthused.

  "Really? Midnight, I want you to know that anything we talk about in here is completely confidential. You can feel free to tell me anything you want and it will go no further.

  I'd really like to hear about all these vampires."

  Vampires. Well, that certainly is a change of pace from aliens and demon possessions.

  She raised an eyebrow. "How do I know you won't tell my parents?"

  "Unless you're going to hurt yourself or someone else, I will never tell anyone anything that we discuss," I explained, giving her my ethically required disclaimer.

  She paused a moment, studying me. "Well, I guess it's okay then, since you can't tell anybody."

  She uncrossed her legs and shifted forward in the chair. "So, what do you want to know?"

  "Why don't you just start at the beginning?"

  She nodded. "I met the vampires right after I graduated from high school last year. My friends all went down to that cool club that used to be a huge, old church in the funky

  sec­tion of downtown—it's called The Crypt. We've got the best fake IDs so we just slide right in. But it's weird. Even though we've got the perfect IDs and they let us in,

  they never let us buy alcohol. If we go up to the bar, the bartender just laughs at us. Pisses me off. What's up with that?"

  I scribbled notes on my pad. It was a delicate dance to get the words on paper without letting my clients feel aban­doned by my split attention. I always wound up with a

  cramp in my hand after each session from all the fast writing.

  Interesting that the club wouldn't sell drinks to her. Maybe they'd gotten in trouble for serving minors before?

  She worried her bottom lip with the tip of one of her fangs, as if it gave her time to think before speaking again.

  "Anyway, there are several levels to the club and one of them, down in the basement—we call it the dungeon— is private. There were curtains over the doorway, but my

  friend, Emerald and I, we waited 'til the guy who guarded the door left for a minute, and then we sneaked down and peeked in through the crack and saw all these amazing

  peo­ple," she reported, with an expression of awe on her face from the memory.

  "Amazing people?"

  "Yeah, two different kinds, really. A whole bunch of kids around my age, maybe a few years older, all dressed up sorta Goth, but not really, wearing white paint on their

  faces and red on their lips. Then there were the other ones. So beauti­ful. They were wearing regular stuff like leather, and didn't have the white makeup on, but they were

  totally awesome. They were a little older, maybe in their 20s or 30s, and they all had gorgeous, long hair . . ."

  She stared off for a moment, her mouth hanging loosely open, having gotten lost in the vision.

  "So, they were totally awesome?"

  Nodding her head gently, she said, "Totally."

  "And then what happened?"

  "We were just standing there, scoping out the room, and a hand came through the curtains, opened them, and the hot­test guy I've ever seen asked if we wanted to come

  in. Emerald didn't want to go in—she's afraid of everything—but I really wanted to check out all those people, so I said yes. The hot guy reached out, took my hand and

  actually kissed the back of it and said his name was Devereux. I thought I was going to pass out just from looking at him. There was something about his eyes." She

  paused and glanced over at me, trying to gauge my reaction before she shared any more details.

  I felt the muscles in my neck and back tighten, which hap­pened sometimes when I worked too hard at holding in all the opinions that wanted to tumble out of my mouth.

  Often, having to remain silent was the hardest part of my job.

  She met a strange man in a bar. A man dressed in leather, who in­vited her into a private room. What's wrong with this picture?

  I smiled. "And then?"

  "Then he sorta led me inside and Emerald followed us. There must have been fifty people in that room and they were all incredible. Dev walked us over to a table, and he

  was so polite. He pulled out the chairs for us, like in the old movies, and asked if we wanted anything to drink. We both ordered beers—we had to try—but he brought us

  Cokes, and we just sat there, staring at him. He wasn't drinking any­thing and I asked why not, and he said he'd already had his fill for the night, and he just kept smiling

  and giving us those psychedelic eyes. I didn't know what he meant back then, but I do now."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Are you sure you won't tell this to anyone? I don't want to piss Dev off," she said, reading my face for signs of deception.

  "I promise," I assured her.

  She nodded. I'd evidently passed the test.

  "Well, he drinks blood, ya know? That's what vampires do. So, when he said he was full, he meant he had already 'eaten' for the night," she explained, her voice light and

  casual, as if we were talking about the weather.

  Yuck. He drinks blood. Can yon say mental illness?

  "Do you drink blood?"

  That, obviously, was a loaded question, because Mid­night started scraping her lower lip against her upper teeth. She twisted the edge of her cape nervously in her hands

  and stared down into her lap.

  "Midnight? Are you all right?"

  Squirming in the chair, she said, "Yeah. It just feels creepy to be talking about this."

  "Do you mean because of w
hat your family would think?"

  She hesitated. "No, because of what Dev would do if he found out," she said, softly. "We're not allowed to drink blood."

  Thank heavens for that

  "We'll come back to the blood in a minute. What's your relationship with Dev?' I was becoming more and more sus­picious of this seemingly charismatic character.

  Catching the drift of my concern, Midnight shook her head. "He's just a friend. All the girls are after him, but he said we're too young and that he's into older women. We all

  hit on him but he never goes out with any of us. He's in charge—the boss, I guess."