Compared to Thomas, Dr. Gregory Roman looked…plain. He was a few inches shorter than I was and had a lean runner's build, though the oversized sweater he wore hid most of the good the exercise did him. His hair was a medium blonde, and he'd tanned to a golden brown to match. His eyes were a subdued blue-gray and hidden behind a pair of rimless spectacles to make him appear more intellectual. He looked like a college professor or a guidance counselor who was trying to endear himself to the kids. Roman's face was an open, friendly lie, and I hated him on sight.
I sank down onto the chair across from his desk, keeping my eyes down. I wrung the hem of my secondhand shirt, pretending it was his neck. It helped. Well, at least until he opened his mouth and began talking.
"Miss..." Roman glanced down at my name on my chart. Thomas had paid a forger an obscene amount to make my documents look good. "Olivia Davis. We're glad to have you with us."
"Ollie," I said, twisting the hem of my shirt hard. If I kept it up, the damn thing would probably fray. "My friends call me Ollie."
"Ollie," he amended with a benign smile. "It says here you're checking yourself in voluntarily."
"Yeah."
"And we're happy to have you here. Do you mind if I ask why, though?"
"It's what Rosie would have wanted," I said quietly. I didn't have to fake a sniffle. "She and I went to school together and we had the same dealer. She and Nelson kept asking me to get help, and I kept saying no and now she's..."
Roman leaned toward me, feigning concern when I clutched my stomach, bending almost double. My stomach clenched so hard I thought I'd throw up. I didn't have to reach for guilt and despair to project at Dr. Skavis. Lara had said it best. My lusts didn't run deep, but my fear and despair were ever-present. And for once, I didn't try to stuff them down and put on a brave face. I let it pour out of me, a torrent of foul feelings. Faces flitted behind my closed lids, a parade of every person, great or small, that I'd failed to save.
Horrible, hiccupping sobs echoed through the office, a siren's call to the monster that cleaved itself to Dr. Roman's soul. Though he hated it, Thomas couldn't deny I was perfect bait to catch a Skavis.
When I risked a glance up I found Roman leaning across his desk toward me, hands forming claws around the corners with the effort it took not to fling himself across the desk. His fingernails had gouged out little crescents in the wood. His eyes shone silver, almost as reflective as the glass of his spectacles before he could rein himself in.
Roman plucked a tissue from the corner of his desk and offered it to me with a sad smile. "Yes, she will be missed. I was just hired, so I'm afraid I didn't know Rosanna well, but I've heard a lot of good things about her volunteer work."
Which was why you targeted her in the first place, you sick motherfucker, I thought acidly.
Most White Court vamps were taught the lesson 'don't shit where you eat' fairly early on. Connection to a victim attracted attention, and too much negative attention from the mortals would reduce your standing in the Court, even if the authorities didn't finger you in the deaths. Rosie had only been a volunteer, here so Roman was unlikely to be investigated, even if someone suspected foul play.
But driving Rosie to suicide had the desired impact. Everyone who'd known and loved her in this place was suffering, which provided ample meals for the Skavis. Like Thomas, he didn't have to kill in order to feed, though that was a temptation every time. House Skavis owned or participated in mental health and rehab facilities all over the world. Where else would you find a rich concentration of the kine with such a handy excuse built in? And once you bumped off the first, it was easy to explain a rash of copycats. Humans were easily influenced little things, especially if you caught them young and impaired. Pregnancy, and the recent death in a friend's family, had made her vulnerable. And now others would pay the price unless I stopped this monster.
I took the tissue and blew my nose noisily, before flicking the moist Kleenex to the floor, missing the trash can entirely. I had to tamp down a spark of vindictive satisfaction when it made a muscle in Roman's cheek tic. The office was done up in shades of white and gray. An original poster from Hitchock's Vertigo was the only splash of color in the otherwise stark room.
According to Thomas, Roman favored messy and theatrical deaths when he fed fully. Gauche, as Lara would have said, but amusing and effective for those of his house.
Roman recovered himself quickly and rounded the desk, offering me a hand up. I ignored it and paced restlessly for the door, staring at the entrance as though I might bolt. All the better to get him to chase me.
"Why don't we get you checked in?" he murmured, and couldn't keep a note of excitement out of his voice. "We'll start with individual therapy in the morning I think."
I nodded, not trusting my voice. Tomorrow seemed like an eternity away, but I'd wait if that's what it took. I needed a controlled environment. No witnesses, and no possible hostages.
And as soon as we were alone? Dr. Gregory Roman was a dead man.