Age of Vampyre Series Box Set Page 2

  On the window, she absent-mindedly traced the outline of a glowing haloed gas lamp and wondered how the strange twists and turns of life had brought her to this: a highly sought-after psychiatrist to the rich, who'd always felt a stronger affinity to help the person on the street.

  In truth, she knew her time at Gould & Associates was approaching an end. Yet, she was still reluctant to inform her boss and mentor, Alfred Gould, of her decision to leave.

  The sound of her assistant's slightly panicked voice drew her attention back to the present. "My apologies, Dr. Radcliffe. I was unaware of your arrival. Please forgive my intrusion, I only wanted to prepare your office and deliver the client's file."

  Simone smiled gently at the flustered young woman. "No need to apologise, Fiona. I have become a rare sighting these past few months. You are forgiven for not being aware of my every move."

  The young woman flushed with obvious relief. Most therapists would have scolded her for entering into what they deemed their 'sacred' ground without being invited. Quickly placing a tray of refreshments and a leather-bound notebook on Simone's desk, Fiona turned to leave.

  "I hope your training with Alf is progressing well," Simone asked encouragingly, in an effort to put her assistant at ease.

  "Yes, I believe so, Dr. Radcliffe. Thank you for asking. Dr. Gould is most patient with me. Is there anything else you require, Dr. Radcliffe?"

  The young woman's officious tone, which Alf insisted all his junior staff adopt when addressing their 'superiors', bothered Simone more than usual. Resisting the urge to snap: ‘enough with this constant "Dr." business, we are practically the same age', she instead ended their encounter with a brusque, “No, please inform me when the client arrives”.

  Taking a seat behind her desk, Simone allowed her fingers to rest on the smoked glass surface. Glass and steel, so cold, so clinical. A fitting dais for her world.

  Dismissing her errant musings, Simone caressed the supple leather notebook Fiona had placed there. Her preference for individual handwritten journals was a personal attempt to keep her clients' deepest revelations private, as well as a way to maintain a more human connection with those she treated.

  She did not agree with the use of tablets loaded with the latest industry software to 'ease an analyst's workload'. The act of putting pen to paper to note a client's setback or breakthrough was much more personal than a ticked box on a screen.

  It was also one of the reasons she attracted a certain type of clientele - those with the most to hide. Word amongst the rich and powerful of an entrancing prodigy with highly ethical therapeutic standards travelled fast.

  Inside the notebook's cover lay a crisp sheet of paper. On it the pertinent details of Simone's latest challenge: Dante Polidori.

  Unusual name.

  'Who are you Dante Polidori and why can you only make an evening appointment?' she wondered. 'Another hedge fund manager who works all hours under the sun and wonders why he can't maintain a steady relationship? A billionaire with too much money and not enough love, who can only discuss his feelings with a confidentiality clause?'

  Simone knew she shouldn't think like this. A client's problems needed to be taken seriously. But it was tiring dealing with rich middle-aged men who wanted their egos stroking and were willing to pay serious money for it.

  Stirred by her unpleasant mental wanderings, Simone stood up and turned, intent on seeking the tranquility offered by gazing out into the night. She needed to compose herself for what lay ahead.

  But rather than finding the comforting glow of gas lamps, instead she was greeted by her own reflection. The evening sky had darkened to the point where the wall of glass had transformed into a mirror.

  And in its reflective surface, a tall figure standing inside the door of her office appeared.

  Simone spun round to greet her visitor, her fingers nervously smoothing back an errant lock of golden hair. And although feeling exposed, she summoned forth her clinical persona.

  If only it was that simple.

  Once her window apparition was made flesh, Simone's steely countenance nearly crumbled. Before her stood a tall, broad-shouldered man, somewhere in his early to mid thirties, impeccably dressed in a Saville Row suit - and yet, rather bizarrely, his eyes were obscured by a pair of dark sunglasses.

  But regardless of his strange eyewear, to say the man possessed an air of sensuality would be an understatement. It was more like he exuded it.

  "Good evening, Dr. Radcliffe. Apologies for my unannounced arrival. I prefer to keep my comings and goings...ah, perhaps 'fluid' best describes it."

  Struggling to keep from revealing how much his presence affected her, she coolly replied, "An interesting description to assign to one's movements. I will be sure to note it on your file Mr...Polidori, I believe. Please, do come in."

  Slowly sliding off his sunglasses, Dante captured Simone's gaze, a smile of appreciation adorning his lips. "Do you mind if I turn the overhead light off and we just have the lamp on instead?" he asked in a slightly gruff voice. "I have sensitive eyes."

  It was an unexpected request but Simone nodded and went to switch on a nearby floor lamp. Dante, in turn, switched off the main light, which gave the room a shadowy but cosy aspect.

  If Simone believed herself alone in struggling under the electrifying atmosphere between them, she was severely mistaken. Dante had been silently watching her long before she'd noticed his presence, his gaze hungrily taking her in.

  The good doctor was even more beautiful in person. Her online bio photo did not do her justice at all. In it she appeared far too severe and serious, not at all the beautiful graceful woman in front of him. But perhaps that was intentional. The online world was a new kind of jungle and needed to be played by different rules.

  Dressed in a sleeveless ice blue high-necked dress, it clung to the contours of her body, revealing the sun-kissed skin of her long, perfectly shaped legs through a tantalizing slit along the thigh. A more modest professional would opt for a longer hem-line, but Simone's tastes plainly indicated she leaned in a different direction.

  "Please, Mr. Polidori," Simone said, gathering her senses. "Take a seat."

  "Thank you," he replied, moving towards a boxy white leather Modernist-style chair, which sat across from an equally horrific matching one. "By the way, call me Dante. I'd much prefer it."

  "Certainly," she agreed, preparing to take her place across from him.

  "Shouldn't I be lying down on a couch or something?"

  'You should be lying down on my bed,' was the first reply which unexpectedly popped into her head. Thankfully, she managed to produce a more proper response in its stead.

  "Oh, no. I don't utilise the Freudian method."

  "Well, I'm almost disappointed," he replied with a light smirk on his full lips. As he sat down, the chair's leather creaked under his substantial form. Once settled, he flashed her a surprised grin. "This chair is more comfortable than it first appeared. I am usually more of a traditionalist when it comes to furnishings."

  "Can I offer you a drink?" she asked, desperately trying to take her mind off wanting to offer him more than a glass of spring water.

  "Ah, I see you prefer to employ more of a Dionysian method to your technique."

  It took a moment for his comment to register. She had yet to get over his use of 'furnishings' that a casual insertion of a Greek god into the conversation threw her even more. How many gorgeous men spoke of home decor and mythical beings so easily? Answer: not many.

  "Regrettably, the world of psychoanalysis frowns upon plying one's patient with drink as a means to address the human condition," she countered, enjoying his banter. "But a glass of water, or strong Earl Grey, are completely permissible."

  “I am fine, thank you,” Dante replied with a smile.

  "Now then, the information you provided when arranging your appointment is rather sparse," she said firmly, intent on steering the conversation back to relevant territory. "Perhaps, you could begin t
o fill in the blanks by telling me what has brought you here."

  Dante decided to dial back the tension between them and opted for a new tactic - the truth. "I was drawn to your particular style of therapy after hearing you on InsideOut."

  Slightly stunned by his answer, Simone was intrigued to learn more. Surely, with his good looks and probable wealth, he would have better things to do at eleven o'clock at night than listen to her show.

  "Are you a regular listener?"

  "Religiously for the past few months," he confessed. "The way you manage to get a positive reaction from people is impressive. Your determination to find a sliver of hope from what, in many cases, are desperately unhappy lives, is admirable. You help many."

  Simone blushed, deeply flattered by his comment.

  "Actually, I wanted to ask you about last night's show," Dante continued. "A caller – Dorothy, I think her name was – seemed to unsettle you. I may have misinterpreted it but your voice sounded a little on edge."

  "It did?" This was a surprise. Not even her producer, Jack, had picked up on it.

  Simone remembered the caller vividly. When Dorothy had complimented her on her listening skills, she'd felt a blind panic take hold inside. It was as though the older woman's words had somehow unmasked Simone's deepest secret.

  She didn't want to listen anymore.

  Simone could not believe Dante sensed this within her – surely she'd remained professional enough for it not to have been detected.

  "You must have been mistaken," she mumbled dismissively.

  Unsure why his questioning was so unsettling, Dante replied, "Perhaps," before continuing, "Last night on your show you focused on how sometimes when the unexpected happens in your life, you should embrace the change, not fight it."

  "I remember," confirmed Simone, sensing Dante was drawing closer to revealing the reason for his visit. "Please, continue."

  Simone watched Dante shift a little uncomfortably in his chair. He suddenly didn't seem so confident. Something was obviously troubling him.

  As he tilted his head back to stare at the ceiling his face moved out of the soft lamplight, and Simone thought she saw his eyes flash like a cat's, but quickly dismissed it as being nothing more than a trick of the light.

  "To be honest, this entire exercise will likely prove to be nothing more than...pure folly," he muttered, disheartened.

  The defeat in his voice alarmed her and without thinking, she reached across to grasp his hand in support. At the touch of his cold skin, she drew back in alarm.

  No living creature should feel as cold as he did. "What are you?" she gasped, without thinking.

  "My dear, Dr. Radcliffe. Would you even dare to believe me if I told you the truth?"

  Chapter Three

  "WHAT IF I told you I was a vampyre?" Dante asked quietly, the unnatural stillness of the office making his reply sound louder than he intended.

  Waiting for his words to sink in, he sat back to study Simone's face in the wake of his declaration. And imagine his surprise to find it barely caused a flicker of emotion to flit across her face.

  Admiring her 'poker face', he decided a different approach may yield more fruit.

  Reaching out to her with his senses, he tried to read her mind but, like her facial expression, her thoughts were masked to him. He'd never encountered a human capable of doing such a thing before - it was most intriguing.

  Unfortunately, the mystery was not one he had the luxury to explore. He needed to act on his true purpose for being here. The softly, softly approach was well and truly over.

  If only she hadn't touched him.

  "Excuse me?" Simone eventually replied, unsure if she'd heard him correctly. "I'm not sure I understand..."

  "Dr. Radcliffe...Simone," Dante said meaningfully, looking her directly in the eye. "I am not a man."

  "I beg to differ ... you look rather masculine to me," her devilish inner voice whispered.

  "Alright," she said, deciding to play along in order to see where it led - at least to a point. "Let's assume you're a vampyre. I suppose it is the reason you were willing to pay for an evening appointment. But why would a vampyre seek out a therapist? Tired of your blood-sucking ways?"

  "Ah, see! You know nothing about real vampyres!" Dante exclaimed. "To you, we're just a myth, a creature from a horror story. For your information, we do not take the blood of innocents, never have actually. We don't even feed on humans anymore."

  "Then how do vampyres satisfy their need for blood?" she asked, trying to keep a modicum of professionalism in her tone. Not an easy task when one is being told such an outrageous story.

  "We have a network of blood banks across London."

  Simone stifled a laugh. "So there are lots of vampyres in London then?"

  "Most humans have no idea what London holds beyond their own history. It is one of the oldest places in the world and vampyres have resided in this city for as long as people. Not only vampyres, either. There are all sorts of creatures roaming about. But then, I'm not here to give you a history lesson. I need you to help me."

  Although astonished by the extent the man was willing to go with his assertion of being an immortal creature, Simone's compassionate nature focused in on his cry for help.

  "How?" she asked softly.

  "I need you to listen."

  "I'm listening, Dante," she responded. "I want to help you, I'm just a little...confused by some of the claims you're making."

  "Zara," Dante muttered. "She used to listen."

  Ah, now Simone felt they were getting somewhere. Relationship issues were a treasure trove of possibilities in her profession.

  "And Zara is ... an old girlfriend?" she prompted.

  "Yes. She is the reason I became a Watcher again."

  "A Watcher?"

  "A vampyre who watches over a certain patch of London to protect humans from vampyres gone rogue. We call them Rippers."

  O...kay. Simone decided to dig a little deeper. "Was Zara a vampyre?"

  "No. She was human."

  "So vampyres can be with...humans?"

  "Yes."

  "But I was under the impression vampyres were...you know..."

  "Sexless?"

  Simone nodded, hoping her interest in the matter did not show. The man needed her help, not a grilling about the sexual behaviour of a non-existent vampyre race.

  "We have intercourse with whomever we please," Dante explained. "But can only breed with human women. My mother died centuries ago."

  Right...good to know, she silently noted, feeling her cheeks grow rosy. Desperate to change the subject, she jumped on his whole dead mother angle. "I see, she died centuries ago, you say. And that makes you how old?" Simone asked with a smile. This should be good, her inner devil goaded.

  "Three hundred, or thereabouts, dependent on which school of thought you belong to," Dante replied enigmatically. He eyed Simone carefully, aware she was simply humouring him. Frustrated, he got out of his chair to pace the room. "But all this talk of my kind and my past is irrelevant!"

  Worried by his sudden outburst, Simone attempted to calm him. "Dante, please. Come...sit with me again. Tell me more about Zara," Simone soothed, wondering if he suffered from a personality disorder or PTSD.

  "It is impossible to explain everything," he said, halting in the middle of the room. "Suffice it to say, a great evil is coming. And no one will be safe - especially humans. It took Zara, my father. And it now wants something from me!"

  Simone remained quiet, assessing the agitated man. The loss of this Zara woman, as well as both his parents, seemed the obvious trigger for his current condition.

  And yet, despite his outlandish claims, she knew he wasn't lying about believing he really was a vampyre. It was most strange. But then, the human mind could convince itself of many things when strained.

  Aware his behaviour was not helping in getting her to trust him, Dante returned to his chair, hoping by conceding to her demand their exchange could be salvaged
. Things weren't going to plan at all.

  Turning on the charm once again, Dante leant back and assumed a much more relaxed position. "My apologies, Dr. Radcliffe. I can become rather...animated at times on certain matters. It won't happen again...promise." He flashed her a most wickedly sexy grin to seal the deal.

  Simone's heart fluttered in response and as she read his energy, a feeling of ease washed over her. Dante posed no danger, her senses told her and so she relaxed.

  "Do you often experience random outbursts of temper?" she asked softly, seeking further confirmation of her suspicion he may be suffering from a traumatic event.

  "Depends on whom you asked," he replied with a quirked brow, trying to lighten the mood between them.

  Simone wanted to laugh in response but held herself in check. Good lord, what was wrong with her? She wasn't on a date with the man. This pull between them was most unsettling.

  Sensing her defenses had softened, Dante took advantage and double downed on his charm bet. "But I have my moments, as you can see."

  She saw many things and others she didn't. For instance, she still had yet to suss out the root of his issue and needed to hear more before making an initial diagnosis. "As long as it doesn't happen again...you are forgiven."

  Dante gazed deeply into her eyes. "I gave you my word that I would not do so. And I never break it. This you can always believe, my good doctor. No harm shall ever befall you from me."

  The room almost crackled with the sizzle of his vow. And in the end it was Simone who looked away first by pretending to jot down something in the leather notebook she'd placed on the table beside her chair.

  Slightly breathless from the power of his stormy gaze, she steeled her nerves and looked up from her scribbling. "You mentioned a great evil was on its way...care to elaborate?"

  Dante placed a finger to his temple after resting his elbow on the armrest. "Very well. But there is something I need to explain before we go on."

  Simone swallowed hard. He looked so intense about what he was going to say, she was ready to hang on his every word.