Dark Harvest Read online

  We needed to find Victoria.

  Maxie was right about my tendency to drift away with my eyes open, because by the time I blinked to rouse myself, the sun had gone completely behind the mountains and the orange-pink light show had morphed into red-purple.

  The coming of the night meant gearing up for the arrival of my first sanguinary client of the evening. Since they transported themselves directly into my office, I usually tried to be present to greet them. I shook my head to clear the cobwebs and scooted the chair back to rise. As I grabbed the edge of the desk, my gaze locked on a long hair stretched along the scattered white papers.

  I lifted it, letting it dangle down in front of my face. “Damn! I could make a hair sweater out of all the strands I shed in a single day.” Then I looked closer. My hair was long—even curly it hung halfway down my back. This hair was a similar color to mine, but much longer. And straight. I held it by both ends. If it wasn’t mine, it wasn’t Victoria’s—her mane was golden—and it wasn’t the snow-white of Maxie’s, then whose was it?

  A memory of Hallow leaning against a white column in my dream floated into my awareness. His hair had been blowing in the breeze. His very long, dark hair.

  No. I tensed. The murdering psychopath couldn’t have gotten into the building. Hadn’t Devereux said it was magically protected? I couldn’t allow myself to believe Hallow had anything to do with Victoria being missing-in-action, because if he was involved, the possibilities were too horrible to imagine.

  I glanced at the ever-darkening sky, wrapped the long hair around my finger, and hurried to the elevator. I pressed the button for my floor and closed my eyes, concentrating on sensing whether Devereux had risen yet. Damn him for not telling me where he spent his days. He knew I had clients this evening, so he wouldn’t stop by right away. How was I supposed to tell him about Victoria?

  “What about Victoria?”

  I sagged with relief at Devereux’s velvet voice in my mind, and almost threw myself on him when he appeared in the elevator, wearing his normal dark leather and a light green silk shirt. I wrapped my arms around his waist, crushing my cheek against his chest for a few seconds, breathing in his spicy fragrance. He held me close. It felt wonderful to touch him. I hadn’t realized how frightened I was for Victoria and how much I needed loving, physical contact. “She’s gone. Something awful has happened. I can feel it.”

  Rallying from my mini-panic attack, I remembered what I’d found, released my grip on him, and backed up a step. I held out my finger, and unwound the dark strand. “Here. This was on her desk. Her morning tea and muffin were only half-finished, and everything was a mess. Someone had rifled through her papers.”

  Face serious, he lifted the hair from my hand and studied it, silent. Then he rubbed it between his thumb and first finger. “There is no life force present. This hair did not come from a mortal.”

  “It’s Hallow’s hair. I’m certain.”

  His eyes narrowed as he raised them to mine. Strong negative emotion radiated from him. He spoke slowly, his voice low. “And how is it you are certain of this?”

  Psychic abilities weren’t necessary for me to sense he was working hard to control his anger, and I considered taking another step back, but decided to hold my ground. Devereux was probably going to blow a fang because I hadn’t told him about the dream where Hallow declared himself a god. But none of that mattered now. All that was important was finding Victoria. Alive and well.

  My lips had gone dry and I had to lick them before I could speak. I didn’t think any explanation would satisfy him, but I pressed on. “It seems logical, because when I found the long hair, I remembered dreaming about him after you held the ritual for me in your room beneath The Crypt. In the dream his long hair fanned out in the wind, and it’s too coincidental to find such a hair on Victoria’s desk when she’s gone missing.”

  He appeared deceptively calm but his energy had sharp claws. “And why did you not inform me of this dream? We spent hours together last night. You had ample opportunity to share this information with me.” He paused, his features tightening. “Is it because you enjoy your time with him?” He tilted his head, studying me.

  Startled by his intuitive question, I cleared my throat to give myself a few seconds to regroup. “No! Of course not.” I gazed into his beautiful turquoise eyes, and recognized pain—and disappointment—there. “I just didn’t want to talk about Hallow anymore. I didn’t want you to get upset again—like you are now.”

  The elevator had long since stopped at my floor, the doors gaping. Devereux turned, stepped out into the hallway, and extended a hand to me, frowning. “Come. See to your client. He is in your office. I will take care of everything else and we will continue this discussion later.”

  I opened my mouth to ask another question and he vanished.

  I walked slowly to my office door, my stomach churning. I’d forgotten to tell him about Maxie using the key card to get into my office and her theory about him hiring a “hit man.” He’d been so upset, maybe I simply hadn’t had the courage to raise more issues.

  But was he right about Hallow? Was it true? Did I enjoy my time with the madman? I couldn’t deny that studying such an ancient vampire was intriguing. When would I get such an opportunity again? But was that all? Were my motives only professional? For some reason, even thinking about Hallow caused my nipples to harden. Victoria said she’d seen us together at my house, and that it was sexual. Had I been with Hallow and didn’t remember? Was that why my heart pounded at the thought of him? Was it a simple attraction to a handsome male, or was this beyond my control? Devereux said Hallow made women desire him like addicts craved heroin. Was the madman still manipulating me? It was terrifying to think that he might be able to control me again. Had he planted thoughts of himself in my psyche? How much freedom of choice did I really have? Who was in charge of me? I shook my head at the strangeness of those questions.

  * * *

  I passed through the waiting room and into my office, plastering a pleasant smile on my face. Every light in the room was blazing. A small, thin man sat huddled at the far end of the couch. He had the same haircut he’d originally gotten in elementary school in the 1940s—parted on the side, hair slicked down with Brylcreem—and, even though he appeared to be in his thirties, he’d never developed socially and psychologically beyond late adolescence. He was afraid of everything. Or, at least he believed he was. He reminded me of the death-obsessed, young male character in that quirky, old film Harold and Maude.

  “I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting, Jerome. I’m glad you made yourself comfortable.” I closed the door and sat in my chair. I swept my personal problems off my mental table and focused on my client. The grad school professors who’d trained us to cultivate a dispassionate professional mask would be so proud of me now—even if they’d never envisioned this particular clientele. But was I proud of me? I used to be so pleased at my ability to emotionally disengage. Now I found myself distressed by that same skill. I was certainly changing, but was that a good thing?

  “Is the hypnosis helping your fear of the dark? Are you still keeping a light on in your coffin while you sleep?”

  Jerome visibly shuddered. His large brown eyes stared, unblinking, from his pale face. “The hypnosis isn’t helping yet. I keep telling myself that I’m not afraid of the dark, but myself isn’t listening. So, to answer your question, yes. I am keeping a light on. In fact, I saw a portable lamp on television that runs on batteries, so I sent away for several. They’re working great. Since my coffin is the extra-large size, I can pretty much stay in there all the time. Except for when I need to get blood, of course.”

  “Yes.” I nodded. “I suppose you could stay in your coffin all the time, but that wouldn’t help your agoraphobia. But let’s talk about how you acquire blood. Are you still ordering pizzas and feeding on the delivery people?” His expression told me what I needed to know. I couldn’t figure out why the pizza restaurants didn’t notice their driver
s always returned in a dazed state from one certain delivery address. Jerome must be better at entrancing humans than he let on.

  He lowered his gaze to the floor and mumbled. “Yes. I know I promised I wouldn’t do that anymore, but I get so hungry. I don’t kill anybody, honest, but I can’t go out, Dr. Knight. I try to make myself, but my legs won’t work. Even though I live in a perfectly good basement apartment in one of the master’s buildings, most days I can’t even make myself get out of my coffin. I think my depression is getting worse.”

  “But you’ve told me you’re capable of transporting yourself through thought. Why don’t you simply do that? Is it easier to hide?”

  He frowned, pouting.

  Poor Jerome. We revisited the same emotional territory every session. Psychotropic medications simply didn’t work on the undead, so all I could offer were behavioral techniques—which hadn’t been very helpful so far. “Do you want to get better, Jerome? Are you happy with the way your life—er, your existence—is?”

  He sat silent for several seconds, then raised sad eyes to mine. “You know I never wanted to be a vampire. I’m simply not equipped for this kind of life. I was always a morning person. My stepfather only bit me to get rid of me. He thought I wouldn’t survive the transition.” He swiveled his head toward the window. “I wish I hadn’t. I’m miserable.”

  Shit. Where’s Maude when I need her?

  Since none of my usual interventions were useful, I felt justified in grasping at straws. “Jerome, is there anything that would make you happy? Something you could get excited about? Life without a purpose—for mortals or vampires—can feel empty. Is there anything that you have passion for? Anyone?”

  He turned to me, an odd expression on his face. “I’ll tell you if you won’t get mad.” He pursed his lips. “You aren’t going to like it.” His voice sounded even younger than usual and he seemed to physically shrink into the cushions of the couch.

  “Tell me,” I said gently. He was treating me like his mother again, which was normal in therapy, but I needed to figure out what had triggered the transference.

  “I am passionate about figuring out a way to end this terrible existence.”

  I nodded. “Well, if you’re feeling miserable, I can understand wanting to relieve the pain.” I paused. “Have you figured it out yet?”

  Does he have a plan to off himself? Is it even suicide if the person is already dead? How could I stop him, anyway? There’s no 9-1-1 to call. No undead suicide hotline. I’m not trained for this!

  He seemed suddenly agitated, shifting his gaze back and forth between the carpet and my face. “I think so.”

  The air became thick. My stomach tightened, and goose bumps prickled my arms.

  Holy shit. What’s going on now?

  “What are you doing, Jerome?”

  He stood and moved with vampire speed, looming over me, effectively trapping me in the chair. I tried to slide off the seat and onto the floor, but he jammed one of his legs between my knees. “You probably don’t know what Devereux said he’d do to anybody who hurt you. He was quite graphic about providing a quick and non-negotiable death. I’m sorry to involve you in this, because you’ve been very nice. I’ve enjoyed our time together, but it’s the only way. I just can’t take anymore.” Dark red replaced the brown of his eyes, and his fangs descended. “And, to be totally truthful, I’ve had a few passionate fantasies about you, too.”

  Fear tackled me. My heart pounded; sweat broke out under my arms. “Stop, Jerome! Don’t do this. I can help you. Things really can get better, please!” I pushed ineffectually against his chest, feeling his breath on my neck. Just as his teeth scraped my skin, he was suddenly gone—lifted away from me.

  “I hate to interrupt this tender moment, but that had to be one of the biggest piles of melodramatic bullshit I’ve ever heard.” Hallow laughed, holding the struggling Jerome in the air by the back of his shirt. “I suppose I could be a good sport and turn this pitiful specimen over to Devereux for disposal, but I’m just not a team player. Killing is so rewarding. I never waste an opportunity to revel in the thrill of the slaughter.” He nodded toward Jerome, who was making high-pitched keening sounds as he flailed his arms and legs. “This whining sot is a blemish on vampires everywhere. He’s not even fit food. And besides, Devereux’s off following the trail of crumbs I scattered for his benefit. If I recall, he’s never gotten into the spirit of the hunt. Always taking the joy out of everything with his lofty philosophies. What good is it to be a vampire if you’re not going to be the meanest predator on the block? I like to set a bloody example.”

  Hallow grabbed a fistful of Jerome’s hair and jerked my attacker’s head to the side with such force—and so quickly—it was ripped away from his body, making a wet, bone-crunching, sickening sound. Blood arced in all directions. I gasped as the thick, red fluid hit me in the face.

  I screamed, frantically wiping at the blood dripping down my nose.

  Hallow watched me for a few seconds, then gave an evil grin. “I always have such fun when I’m with you. It’s a pity we can’t leave today, but I have responsibilities to take care of. I’m sure you understand.” He glanced down at his hands, chuckling, as if he was surprised to find himself holding two parts of a ravaged vampire. He threw Jerome’s body on the floor and raised my former client’s severed head aloft, staring up at it. “Do you want this as a souvenir? After all, the unfortunate boy was just about to commit suicide by draining the therapist.”

  He angled Jerome’s bloody head over his open mouth, drinking the dripping liquid. Crimson streams spread down his face, through his hair, and onto his shirt, saturating the dark fabric. He enthusiastically licked his lips, fangs glinting menacingly from between them.

  The horror of what Hallow had done upended my brain and I sat, numb, staring. A ragged portion of Jerome’s spine protruded from the torn skin and I felt my head spin. Knowing I was in shock and dangerously close to throwing up, I lowered my head between my knees and tried to breathe. I heard something hit the floor with a squishy crunch as the gleeful monster laughed. I shifted my gaze just in time to watch Jerome’s head roll against the toes of my shoes. I groaned.

  “I keep forgetting what sissies humans are. One unexpected beheading and you’re reaching for your barf bags. Let’s get you some air. I prefer your natural, sweet-smelling aroma.”

  He lifted me from the chair, balanced my limp, nauseated body in his arms, and transported us to the rooftop patio. Along with everything else about Devereux’s building, it was both lovely and utilitarian. Motion-sensing lights illuminated the space, which wasn’t really necessary since the moon hung low in the clear sky, only a couple of days past being full.

  I’d just opened my mouth to demand he release me, when he did exactly that. My feet found the floor and I steadied myself, staring at the bloodied monster who stepped in front of me.

  “Blood agrees with you, Kismet.” He grinned. “It brings out the blue of your eyes and the ivory of your skin tone. Of course, your beautiful dress is damaged beyond repair.” His silver eyes glistened. “I hope it didn’t have any special significance for you.” He stroked his hand down my breast over the silky, ruined material. It didn’t take a huge mental leap to understand Hallow knew the garment had been a gift from Devereux. Disgusted, I recoiled from his touch, jerking a step back. “Get your hands off me, you murdering bastard,” I croaked through the fear contracting my throat. My voice came out thin and high-pitched. Hallow’s energy felt suffocating.

  His grin expanding, he grabbed my upper arm, hauling me closer. “I don’t think I will. As much as I enjoy your keen mind—and you know I’m looking forward to exploring your abilities—it’s probably time to shift to the next level of my plan.”

  I tried, without success, to free my arm from his grip. “You’re not exploring anything about me, you homicidal psychopath. I’m not participating in any of your sick plans. You’re a delusional monster.”

  His eyes wide, he shook
his head, adopting an expression of innocence. “Is this my thanks for keeping the irritating boy from tearing your throat out? Name calling? My dear doctor, I would’ve expected much more gratitude and subservience. Oh, well. It’s clear I have my work cut out for me.” His eyes narrowed. “You will make a marvelous lýtle.” He leaned in. “And perhaps more.”

  I kept struggling, but his fingers were steel. The crazed maniac stared at me with his cold, silver eyes, and I felt my awareness fragment. His hypnotic orbs locked on mine, pulling like a magnet, enticing me into his dark aura. My knees buckled. Only his grip on my arm kept me from falling. One part of me remained conscious of the fact that I was on the roof of Devereux’s building, held prisoner by a killer. But another part—the one with the hard nipples and damp crotch—eagerly dived into the mercurial lure of his gaze, unable to concentrate on anything but the need to feel his hands on me. I was sentient enough to understand my level of danger, but unable—or unwilling—to turn away.

  He held me tight against him, fisted his free hand in my hair, and tugged my head back, exposing my neck. The smell of blood was strong.

  “Soon, your only purpose will be to serve me. You will do so willingly—craving me above life itself,” he whispered, his mouth against my ear, the words sending rushes of pleasure down my body.

  Almost painfully aroused, I groaned, surrendering the use of whatever bones still remained. The sane part of my brain frantically screamed, “No! I don’t want this! Stop!” But the inmates had taken over the asylum.

  Want this.

  His soft tongue licked down my neck before he plunged his fangs into the rich vein pulsing there. I screamed with the beginnings of a powerful—almost overwhelming—orgasm that rumbled through my entire body and bombarded me with chaotic emotions. As the pleasure intensified, my muscles spasmed, shaking me violently, as if I were having a seizure.