Excerpt: Crimson Psyche, Kismet Knight book #3
All three novels in the Kismet Knight, Vampire Psychologist series will be available as ebooks soon. Stay tuned for details!
Chapter 1
“Welcome back, Denver! Carson Miller here, host of Wake
Up, Denver!, WOW Radio’s
top-rated talk show. We’re continuing this week’s theme of whacked local
celebrities. Is it just me, or is Denver crazier than ever?” His laugh sounded
like a rusty chainsaw.
What the hell? Whacked local
celebrities? I agreed to come and counsel his listeners!
“I’ve got self-proclaimed vampire
psycho – oops, I mean vampire psychologist
– Doctor Kismet Knight in the studio with me today. She’s ready and willing to
answer all your bloodsucker questions. Give us a call. The phone lines are
open. Welcome, Doctor Knight.” He gave a wide, tobacco-stained smile.
“Thanks, Carson.” I spoke into
the microphone on the long folding table in front of me. “I’m happy to be
here.” Barely catching myself before I tacked a question mark onto my response,
I adjusted my headphones and peered around at the unexpectedly low-tech,
dungeon-like studio.
Piles of newspapers, men’s
magazines, CDs, DVDs and promo flyers fought for supremacy against empty pizza
boxes and Styrofoam coffee cups. Fast food bags overflowed the trash can. The
pleasant decor and posters of contemporary talk-show personalities on the walls
in the outer office hadn’t prepared me for the primitive reality of Carson
World.
As he read an ad for an auto
parts store, I inched my microphone further away from his, noting the long cord
curling at the base of the stand in case I needed to put even more space
between us, and scanned the electronics in the engineer’s booth. Not only was
the equipment modern, but through a glass wall I could see yet another studio
on the far side of the booth, and even from here that one looked to be
state-of-the-art. Why would the station stick Carson in such a miserable hole?
He rotated his head in my
direction and wiggled his eyebrows, still talking into the microphone. “Let me
start by saying that you look finger-lickin’ good this morning, Doc. Seriously
babe-o-licious.” He ran his thick, lumpy tongue slowly around his lips in a
horror-film version of what I supposed he thought was a sexual come-on.
Gak.
“Uh, thanks?” I couldn’t quite
squelch the question mark this time. I studied his stained, too-small T-shirt
and unfashionably torn jeans. His voice, which had sounded pretty sexy through
my car radio, wasn’t even close to being an accurate representation of the man
himself.
“And now that I’ve eyeballed the
merchandise, I’m going to do my best to talk the Doc here into taking off her
clothes before the show’s over. Then I’ll post photos on my Facebook page,” he said,
laughing at my alarmed expression.
“I don’t think so.” Oh, great. Another Howard Stern shock-jock
wannabe, except fat and bald – what is it with all these talk-radio assholes?
Miserable-hole question answered. At
least I’ll get a good case-study article out of this experience: Demented, Aging
Radio Hosts and Mental Illness. “We can take that option off the
table.” I glanced at the door that led from our tiny sound booth to the
engineer’s studio to calculate how many steps it would take me to escape.
“Don’t be so sure, Doc. I can be
pretty persuasive when I put my mind to it.” He pointed at the engineer, who
hit a sound effects button and filled the airwaves with loud clapping.
Young spectators were visible
through a large window, lining the hallway and blocking the exit. They
high-fived each other and bumped fists, laughing at something I was obviously
not cool enough to understand.
Does he have those fans jammed in
there on purpose to keep me from leaving? He probably does. What a creep!
I
caught a movement from the corner of my eye and shifted my gaze toward a young
male who’d materialized, stepped through the bystanders and sauntered over to
stand next to me.
Perfect. A haunted radio station.
Just what I need.
The
slender man wore a glittery jacket with bulky shoulder pads and sported spiked
1980s hair. He grinned and saluted me with a beer can.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Carson
continued, “I have to tell you that it’s a shame we aren’t on TV because Doctor
Knight is a feast for the eyes. She’s wearing a clingy black dress that hugs
her curves in all the right places. Legs that go on forever. Big blue eyes. And
she’s got this great long, dark hair.” He reached out to touch my curls and I
smacked his hand away. He lowered his voice and gave it an extra layer of
smarm. “It gives a guy ideas, if you know what I mean. Anyway, Doc” – he
returned to me – “so what the hell is a vampire psychologist? Are you a
vampire?” He laughed and his belly flopped against the table, making the
microphone wobble. When he moved, the smell of cigarette smoke wafted from his
T-shirt.
“No, Carson, I’m not a vampire.”
I scooted my chair and microphone even further away from the host, tilted my
head and attempted a professional smile while I focused on his ridiculous
question. If he only knew. “I’m a
psychologist who works with the subculture of individuals who believe they’re
vampires. Or who want to be vampires – people seeking meaning through
role-playing and exploring the dark side of themselves – the unknown – and by
flouting society’s ideas of good versus evil.”
“Wow, Doc – that sounds pretty
sexy,” he oozed. “Are you saying that Denver has a lot of these people? These
‘pretend vampires’?” He reached one of his hands out toward me, making grabbing
motions.
I shoved it away, giving him the
evil eye.
This moron’s not going to rattle
me. I’m here for the listeners.
He waved three fingers at the
engineer and a chorus of “Carson! Carson! Carson!” burst from the speakers.
Then, while the voices raved, he laughed and pointed to the microphone,
expecting, or maybe daring, me to continue my interview despite his obnoxious
behavior.
I glanced at the studio clock on
the wall, imagining pushing my way through the crowd at the door and regretting
the fact that I’d agreed to be a guest for an entire segment. In retrospect, I
definitely should’ve done more research to determine which media appearances
would actually help my career, which ones had disgusting hosts, and which shows
just wanted to exploit the fact that I’d been involved in a heavily reported
serial murder investigation – a case dubbed the vampire murders – six months earlier. Who’d’ve guessed finding
blood-drained bodies would generate so much interest?
Carson sliced his finger across
his neck, signaling the engineer to stop the chant, then said, “Hey, Doc, wasn’t
somebody killed in your office a while back?”
“There was a death, yes – but I’m
sure your audience would rather have me address their personal issues as we
agreed.” I stared at him until he smirked and pointed to the engineer, who
pressed another button on his console, unleashing the sound of a roaring crowd.
I wasn’t about to discuss the
death in my office – very few people knew the truth: that the perpetrator had
been a mentally defective vampire, diagnosed with what used to be called
Multiple Personality Disorder, and whose rotted corpse finally sloughed off his
immortal coil a few weeks ago. Those select few who did know included one
Denver police lieutenant, one cocky FBI agent, a bunch of vampires, a
half-undead psychologist colleague, a transgendered hypnotherapist and me.
Everybody else believed the cover story about a mortal perpetrator.
’80s Guy bent close to Carson and
waved his hands in front of the oblivious host’s face.
I’ll
just ignore the Billy Idol clone, and he’ll get bored and go away.
The sound effect stopped again,
leaving empty air, and after a moment Carson realized and jumped back in. “It
seems the Doc here needs more coffee – she’s a little slow on the uptake this
morning. Okay, so let’s go to the phones. Studio lines are open.”
He gave me an innocent smile and
shrugged, as if to say I shouldn’t hold him responsible for his radio persona.
I notched up the ice content in my glare and pushed my chair back a couple more
inches.
Maybe
he’s off his meds. Or he has mad cow disease.
posted by Lynda Hilburn at 12:49 PM
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