BLOOD THERAPY by Lynda Hilburn

BLOOD THERAPY by Lynda Hilburn

Book 2, Kismet Knight, Ph.D., Vampire Psychologist Series

Dr. Kismet Knight and the dark world of vampires are back in this sexy sequel to the wicked romp The Vampire Shrink.

Still reeling from her earlier adventures, the spunky, smart, and tough heroine tries to adjust to her new reality--and new undead clientele. Then she discovers a frightening secret about these powerful immortals that further warps her world.

Needing to escape, she flees to New York for the American Psychological Association's conference, where she meets up with hottie FBI Agent Alan Stevens. Unfortunately, he's not the only blast from the past in the Big Apple: so is Lucifer, the demented tormentor who nearly killed her. As the killer closes in, everyone is rounded up for a shocking finale that no one will survive unscathed.

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Excerpt from BLOOD THERAPY, Kismet Knight, Vampire Psychologist Book #2

“I don’t blame you for being upset, and I know you’ll acclimate.” I repeated the same word he had used—it seemed like weeks ago—when he was talking about me and his vampire intensity. “You’ll see that nothing important is different.”

He didn’t look convinced.

I had to grin. He was so out of his comfort zone. If he were a client, I’d be very happy about this development because it meant he was ready to explore unknown territory. But I didn’t think an 800-year-old master vampire would really like the idea of change much. I pretend-genuflected. “You’re still the almighty vampire king of the universe.”

The corner of his lip tugged up until a full, brilliant smile blossomed.

“Well, as long as we are in complete understanding about that.”

We lapsed into silence again. This was, without a doubt, the most awkwardly uncomfortable time Devereux and I had ever spent together. It was my turn to fidget. I played with my hair and stared at the floor. The rules had changed. Neither one of us knew what was going on, and until we figured out our new roles in our relationship—or whatever it was we were having—we’d feel insecure.

I felt sad that things had become so strange between us, because I really did care about him, vampire insanity and all. I guess I hadn’t let myself think about how much I wanted us to work out our issues.
He cleared his throat and stood. “I imagine you are tired, and would like some time to yourself. I will go.”

I held out my hand for him to pull me up, and when he did, my robe, clearly acting out my unconscious desires, came untied and draped open. I started to close it, to cover myself, but then chose not to. “Don’t go.” I suddenly felt shy with him, but wanted to take the risk of reaching out. I took a deep breath and threw back my shoulders, momentarily afraid he’d choose to leave.

His mesmerizing eyes tracked down my body. “Are you sure?”

Relieved, my nipples hardened and my hormones, dressed in cheerleader costumes, formed a conga line and began calling out the letters of Devereux’s name, flailing their pom-poms across the landscape of my mind. My libido did a backflip. Apparently I was sure.

“Yes.” Warmth radiated up my body. “All I’ve done is sleep for the past seven days. I’m not tired at all.” I took his hand and pulled him toward the stairs. “Besides, I’ve missed you.”

“And I you.”

We climbed silently. I felt jittery, on edge, as if I’d never been with him before. I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye. His beautiful profile looked serious, but I sensed his excitement and uncertainty.

Instead of turning on my bedroom light, I went to the nightstand, pulled out a lighter, and lit the wicks of several candles I’d kept in my room since the last time Devereux and I had spent time there. I closed the door and dropped my robe to the floor.

He peeled off his black leather coat and tossed it on a chair, his eyes never leaving mine, then he tugged off his boots, pulled the silk shirt over his head in a smooth motion, and shook his lustrous hair. His expression ravenous, he unsnapped the waist of his leather pants and drew down the zipper. With vampire speed, the pants were off and kicked to the side.

We moved slowly toward each other.

My heart pounded and my body heated, as if the candles were giving off a blaze instead of tiny flames.

When we were standing close enough for my nipples to touch his chest, he wrapped his arms around me, and nodded at the candles, extinguishing them. The room went dark and immediately wind blew against my face as we soared through space.

“Hold on!” he said.

“Hey—it’s cold out here! I’m naked! Where are we going?”

“You will see.”

“Devereux, really,” I yelled over the sound of the wind. I loved his surprises, but his mood had been so odd I wasn’t sure I was ready for another mystical adventure. “Where are you taking me?”

“Wherever I wish.” He laughed.

We landed gently in an incredible room that looked like my fantasy version of Arabian Nights.

He released me, and I scanned the immediate area, dazzled by the gorgeous layers of multicolored silk and satin fabric which covered the walls, and draped randomly and luxuriously across the expanse.

I wandered, touching and rubbing the layers between my fingers, very aware of his gaze on me.

A massive bed topped with a bold red, purple, and blue silk spread dominated the room. Unobtrusive music drifted from hidden speakers and rich, exotic incense burned in a small bronze tray sitting on a low table surrounded by oversize pillows scattered across the floor. Candles atop tall holders arranged throughout the space created a soft golden light.

“Wow, this is quite something.” I felt like a kid in a candy store. “Is it another one of your properties?” I knew he had hundreds.

“Yes.”

Hmmm. My previous enthusiasm drooped. No confusion about the purpose of this opulent sex den. I tried to keep my voice neutral. “Do you bring women here often?” Fearing what he would say, my stomach muscles contracted. I was surprised by how much his answer mattered to me.

The corners of his lips rose. “I do not need to read your mind to know the response you wish me to give.” He moved to me, lifted my chin, and brushed my lips with his. “I am petty enough to be happy you are jealous.”

Was I jealous of the other women he’d brought here? Hell, yes!

I imagined the truly gorgeous specimens he might choose and shifted carefully out of his reach. “I’m not jealous. Just curious.”

“You are a bad liar.” He grinned. “But I can give you the answer you desire: no, I do not bring women here. This suite is part of a fantasy-based business I own. The company offers multi-themed buildings all over the world for the purpose of romantic escapes. The business is very successful.”

“Oh.” I looked away as relief swamped me.

“I chose this destination because I thought we both could benefit from a little positive fantasy, and some time without interruptions of any kind.”

My pulse quickened.

THE VAMPIRE SHRINK by Lynda Hilburn

THE VAMPIRE SHRINK by Lydna Hilburn

Book 1, Kismet Knight, Ph.D., Vampire Psychologist Series

Denver Psychologist Kismet Knight, Ph.D., doesn’t believe in the paranormal. She especially doesn’t believe in vampires. So what happens when she finds herself neck-deep in the vampire underworld?

Kismet is smart, witty and attractive. She’s respected in her field, successful and prosperous. She’s followed all the rules – done everything right. So, what’s the problem? Her life is empty. There’s no passion. No vitality. No excitement.

That is, until a new client introduces Kismet to the vampire underworld, and a drop-dead gorgeous, 800-year-old vampire named Devereux. Kismet isn’t buying the vampire story, but can’t explain why she has such odd reactions and feelings whenever Devereux is near. Kismet is soon forced to open her mind to other possibilities when she is visited in her office by two angry bloodsuckers, who would like nothing better than to challenge Devereux by hurting Kismet.

As Kismet gets pulled deeper and deeper into the vampire subculture, she struggles to hold onto her professional ideas about what is and isn’t “real.” The more she finds herself attracted to the charismatic, handsome Devereux, the more out of control her life becomes.

When one of her clients shows up in her office almost completely drained of blood, Kismet finds herself immersed in an ongoing murder investigation. Kismet is questioned by irreverent, handsome FBI profiler Alan Stevens, who warns her that vampires are very real. And one is a murderer. A murder who is after her.

In the midst of all this, Kismet realizes she has feelings for both the vampire and the profiler, but even though she cares for each of the men, facing the reality that vampires exist – along with all the other supernatural insanity she discovers – is enough of a challenge. For now.

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THE VAMPIRE SHRINK - EXCERPT #4

A Really Bad Night . . .

It was perhaps lucky that I didn’t know right away that I’d woken up in a coffin. The first thing I noticed was a putrid smell, a unique stench consisting of backed-up sewer, rotted meat, blood, mold, mildew, and death. The smell was so horribly potent that it caused me to become aware of the second thing: it was very dark. The reason the smell triggered me to notice the darkness was because as soon as I got a good whiff of it, my stomach heaved. I tried to sit up, or roll over, because I didn’t want to throw up on myself, and I was certain that barf was in my immediate future.

My attempt to sit up caused me to bang my head against an unexpected barrier, which led me to discover there was a ceiling directly above my body. I began to push against it and quickly deduced it was an immovable object, or at least a very heavy one.

Then I panicked.

The feeling of my hands pushing against the resisting material immediately triggered a cellular memory of the aforementioned movie and I started to scream, which shifted my attention away from throwing up. This proved to be very helpful: fear is a powerful motivator. Like the mothers who lift multi-ton vehicles off their children, imagining myself locked in a box for my ride up the Entry Ramp to Eternity allowed me to become Hulk-like in my strength, and to force open what turned out to be the bulky lid of an old coffin.

I sat up, still screaming, the sound reverberating off the walls of the small, decrepit building I’d awakened in. A building that smelled extraordinarily bad.

Raising the lid on the coffin allowed me to see the sunlight filtering in through the broken front door. I couldn’t tell how much time had passed, but it was obviously daytime. A chunk of my life was missing. I valiantly tried to reconstruct the chain of events that had brought me to this moment, and failed.

I stopped screaming – mostly because it hurt my throat – and let my eyes adjust to the dim light. Being able to see where I was made things worse. Instead of only suspecting I was up shit creek, I now had verification.

The building was an old, run-down mausoleum. Low spots in the cement floor were filled with stagnant, rancid water mixed with blood from several dead bodies. Even in the limited light, it was clear that no one in any state of aliveness could be the color of the remains scattered around that room. The place looked like a human slaughterhouse. Back in a corner were bones and pieces of rotting clothing, which gave evidence to the likelihood that whatever was going on here had been going on for a very long time.

Needless to say, I had to get out.

I assumed that whoever had killed all those people was probably coming back to get me. I didn’t have time to think about why I was still alive, why the murderer had left me in the coffin instead of adding me to the collection on the floor. It occurred to me I was probably in shock, which explained the strange fuzzy feeling in my head.

Since the lid of the coffin had only swung back on its hinges and was still standing straight up on one side, I couldn’t brace myself by holding on to both edges to lift up. Grabbing the available edge, I put my other hand down alongside my legs and felt it sink into clumps of dirt or sand. As I pulled my knees underneath me, I heard a soft clattering sound as something knocked against the inside of the coffin. I reached my hand out to find what had made the noise and closed my fingers around a long stick-like thing. I brought it up into the light and found myself in possession of a human bone. I had been lying on top of whoever had been buried in that coffin.

Holy shit!

My stomach lurched again and I rose to my feet as if pulled by ropes. Looking down, I could clearly see the remains of the original resident. With shaking hands I brushed off as much of the desiccated decomposed material as I could from the rear of my pants and apologized silently to the person I had scattered into the air.

The coffin I was now standing in was situated on a pedestal about three feet off the floor. The area close around it was filled with dead bodies and pools of bloody water. I would have to jump, which under the best of circumstances called on grace I hadn’t cultivated, and to jump while wearing four-inch heels would guarantee a painful outcome. But if my choice was to wait in the coffin for the psychopath to return or take my chances with a sprained ankle, I’d choose the sprain anytime.

Since I was far from adept in physical situations, it took me a moment to work out that I could sit on the open edge of the coffin, swing my legs out, and scoot down, then find a small space for the ball of my foot on one of the few dry spaces on the floor and ease myself away from the pedestal.

Kismet the nerd who flunked gym class in ninth grade.

That’s what I did, all the while listening for any sound that would alert me to the return of the monster who’d brought me there.

I walked on tiptoes through the carnage to the door, unable to avoid wading through puddles of slimy, bloody water, and finally reached the stairs leading up to the light. My stomach had been clenched so tightly I’d barely breathed since I left the coffin. I climbed up the stone steps and shoved the door. It swung open on rusty hinges, making that sound always present in horror movies. Then I stepped out into the sunshine and found myself in the middle of an old graveyard.

I heard sounds of traffic nearby and moved in that direction. I kept glancing behind me to see if it had been a trap, if someone – or something – was going to spring out at me from behind one of the huge gravestones and haul me back into the pit of hell, but I was alone.

Doubtless I must have been quite a sight as I walked out of the ornate cast-iron gates of the graveyard and crossed the parking lot of McDonald’s.

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DIARY OF A NARCISSISTIC BLOODSUCKER by Lynda Hilburn

DIARY OF A NARCISSISTIC BLOODSUCKER by Lynda Hilburn

Told in first person by the vampire herself (Zara), this is the diary of an ancient, self-absorbed, yet-amusing nightwalker.

She lusts for both sex and blood. Unfortunately, something has gone awry and her normal habits now create new problems to solve. In the midst of sorting things out, she meets an intriguing human named Niven - a musician who lives in the magical kingdom of contemporary Boulder, CO - and discovers that he is much more than he appears to be.

Then, if things weren't interesting enough, Zara encounters her old mentor/lover - the vampire who originally turned her - and things get downright supernatural.

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Excerpt:

Anyway, on that fateful day where our story begins, as the last rays of the sun slid behind the mountains, my eyes opened, I sat up, and immediately knew something was different.

It was as if there was a blip in the space-time continuum. Or the vibrational soup I'd grown accustomed to swimming in had a new carrot in the pot. Or someone's soul signature was pulling me: As if a special radio station with a signal that only I could hear had gone on the air.

And, while we're on the subject, let me clear up another thing right now. Vampires have souls. It is the body that dies. Any respectable metaphysician will tell you that the essence of what we Earth inhabitants are – fundamental and deeper than alive/not alive – is some kind of etheric energy. This energy continues, regardless. It does seem to be the case that each soul – yes, that includes vampires – has its own song and, according to legend and myth, each soul is theoretically matched with another soul whose song is similar. We've all been bashed over the head with the soul mate thing, so I won't bore you with that. Besides, the entire topic really is much more complicated and interesting than we usually hear about.

But, back to what I was saying. When I arose, I sensed…something.

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UNDEAD IN THE CITY by Lynda Hilburn

UNDEAD IN THE CITY by Lynda Hilburn

Musician Tempest Moon knew the world was a rough place. Raised in the inner city of Detroit, the only way she knew to succeed was to be smarter - and tougher - than the next guy. Being a sexy, talented singer/lead guitar player with her own band was her way of being in charge of her destiny. Whether anyone else liked it, or not.

Tempest's band was gigging in yet another downtown dive. The club was almost empty due to the arrival of the worst blizzard the city had seen in a century. With one more set to play before she and the band could escape the smoky lounge, a mystery man walked in. Even dripping wet from the relentless onslaught, Tempest could tell the man was unusual. If only because he was the most gorgeous male specimen she'd ever seen. But he was a little pale.

Malveaux had ducked into the bar to avoid having to kill anymore of the worthless minions set upon him by the local vampire territory boss. Under most circumstances, he'd have enjoyed tracking the idiots, and tearing their hearts out. He'd learned long ago to take pleasure in his work. But Malveaux wasn't dealing with usual circumstances. A sexual obsession, passed to him by his sire and suddenly overwhelming, had changed all the rules of the game. He knew if he didn't find an "offspring" - a female to serve his needs - he'd go mad.

When he laid eyes on the charismatic musician on stage, he knew he'd found his "child." She wouldn't need to know he was an assassin. But she'd find out his deeper secret soon enough when he sank his fangs into the pulsing vein in her neck.

Together they'd take on the human underworld and the undead.

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Excerpt:

A burst of frigid air hit Tempest as the front door opened. Thinking a few more customers might be braving the sudden ice age to show up for the last set, she was disappointed to see only a solitary man step inside. He shook his hair away from his face, sending a shower of melting snow down the walls, and straightened the collar on his coat. The entryway was directly in front of her at the far end of the club, and luckily, there were a lot of overhead lights, so she got a good look at the new arrival. Even with his long, dark hair snow-covered, wet, and plastered against his shoulders, she felt her breath catch – and not from the cold air. He had to be the most gorgeous man she’d ever seen. Tall, with light skin and piercing eyes. She appreciated the cut of his leather duster and suspected it was high dollar. What the hell was a fancy number like him doing in a crap hole like this? Maybe he was another one of those mafia jerks. They were always showing up to extort one kind of payment or another.

Hidden in the darkness of the stage, she followed him with her eyes as he strode purposefully to the booth tucked back in the far corner. The bartender, along with every other life form in the smoky room, had gone completely still as the newcomer passed. Pausing next to the booth, the man removed his coat, shaking it to dislodge the melting snow and ice. A smile spread across Tempest’s face as she noted the form-fitting leather pants and muscle-hugging, light-colored t-shirt he wore under the expensive coat. It didn’t take much creativity to imagine how it would feel to run her hands over that muscled expanse, but Tempest had creativity and imagination in abundance. So much, that her body stirred in satisfied anticipation of the unexpected possibility that had just magically offered itself for later that night. She would’ve been happy to bounce on Stan again, but as far as men went, new was always better than familiar. She’d learned that the best thing about her looks was being able to use them to pick up any guy she wanted. Pitiful that males were so easily controlled, but it was just as well, since she so enjoyed being in charge.

She watched the handsome stranger fold himself into the booth, and out of the corner of her eye, she saw Chaz, the bartender, spring from behind the bar. The previously laid-back – read stoned – fellow practically fell over his own feet in his frantic attempt to reach the leather man. He hovered near the booth, wringing his hands, nodding energetically at whatever the new customer was saying. Chaz finally pointed toward the pay phone near the shelves of liquor and speed-walked in that direction, leaving the man alone.

Tempest realized she’d been holding her breath during Chaz’s strange performance. Of course, she’d only met the bartender that day, so she had no idea what his normal behaviors were. But still, the vibe he gave off around the stud muffin was unusual, almost as if he was afraid or something. She could feel the thrum of his anxiety from her observation post. No surprise, really. Most of the businesses in the inner city were mob controlled. Maybe the eye candy in the booth was high-up on the motherfucker feeding chain. She smirked. A lesser woman might take a pass on rolling around with a member of The Family, but she always enjoyed a challenge. None of the assholes had gotten the upper hand with her yet, and she felt confident she could call the shots with this yummy specimen, too.

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