Alun avoided speaking to David for the rest of the day. He knew he was being petty, but damn and blast, he hated to admit there was anything to David’s accusations. Each of his clients, though, had been reading one of those ridiculous magazines when he’d called them in from the lobby. Half of them had asked him if he was wearing a new tie, or had gotten a haircut, obviously noticing something different about him, but not able to identify what it was.

The only difference was that he was intentionally trying to keep his expression benign—if such a thing was possible given what he had to work with.

He had one last client before his human PTSD group—Kristof Czardos, the oldest vampire on the planet. He held tremendous status within the vampire community and had been head of their council since he’d emigrated from Hungary in the late 1890s.

Unfortunately, he was starving to death.

Not because his abilities had faded—he could still heal a bite with ease and cloud the minds of those he fed from without breaking an undead sweat, and his control was so complete that he hadn’t killed a donor since before the fall of Constantinople. But he’d developed an aversion to the taste of blood.

When you had only a single nutritional option, if you couldn’t consume it without gagging, you tended to lose weight quickly.

Even the scent of human blood under the skin sickened Kristof these days, and Alun purposely scheduled his appointments before the PTSD group, so he’d have the chance to desensitize himself against the nausea. He’d made some progress—enough to walk through a reception room full of humans without retching now—but he was still unable to feed.

Shite. David.

Alun’s heart kicked into a gallop, and he thrust himself out of his chair. How would Kristof react when forced to interact with a human, not just hurry by him? Considering how resistant David was to minding his own business, he’d strain Kristof’s icy restraint to the breaking point.

He crossed the office in four giant strides and tore open the door. Kristof was standing in front of David’s desk as the man offered him that thrice-damned blood-colored dish full of candy. David cut a glance at Alun, but didn’t take his attention away from Kristof.

“What did I tell you?” David said. “They’re awesome for an upset stomach. Have another.”

What in all the bloody hells?

Kristof, to Alun’s stunned amazement, took one of the pastilles and popped it in his mouth with no hint of fang. He nodded. “You are right. I haven’t felt this well in eons.”

David beamed at him. “Would you like me to package some up for you? You can take them with you when you go.”

Kristof executed a formal half bow. “I would be honored. Thank you.” He turned and nodded at Alun. “Dr. Kendrick. You have a most accomplished young man here. I commend you.”

“Yes. Well.” Alun cleared his throat, avoiding David’s gaze, and gestured for Kristof to enter the office. “Shall we?”

If he didn’t think he’d scare the dickens out of the two women who’d arrived early for the eight o’clock group session, David would have leaped out of his chair and danced around the room. Of course, given his negative talent, they might expire from laughter instead, but holy smoking crap.

Mr. Czardos had complimented him to Dr. Kendrick. Ha! Maybe the doctor would see there were other ways of caring for patients— Gah! Clients. That David could be an asset to the office, one worth keeping.

If all the stars aligned and he was able to hold on to this job until Vanessa returned from maternity leave, he’d be able to save enough to get Aunt Cassie out of the soggy Pacific Northwest for a few weeks in the middle of winter, when she was most likely to succumb to pneumonia. Someplace sunny and decadent, maybe a cruise in the Mediterranean, like the one they’d always talked about.

The one he’d lost hope they’d ever take together.

He ignored a tiny sting in his heart. So what if he couldn’t go along? As much as he wanted to spend the time with his aunt, see her pampered and relaxed, he wanted her healthy more. If that meant sending one of the girls in his place so he could keep working, he’d suck it up and deal.

Even if Dr. Kendrick continued to be a gold-medal contender in the World Cantankerous Championships.

Throughout the next hour, another dozen people, both men and women, ranging in age from late teens to middle age, arrived for the group. David gave himself a mental high-five when all of them consumed a minimum of one cup of coffee and leafed through one or more magazines.

Miraculously, he had one pertinent piece of information besides name for each of these clients—their intake date. They’d all been in this group for at least six months, yet none of them spoke to each other. They sat scattered around the room, always keeping a chair or two between them. As if half-fearful, they glanced at others in the room and then away, not meeting David’s gaze, exhibiting a whole range of avoidance body language.

Jeez, if this was what they were like before the group even started, the actual session must be torture.

What this room needs is a little music to loosen things up. He tapped his fingers on his knee, contemplating the closed office door. Dr. Kendrick had another ten minutes with Mr. Czardos. David slid his contraband CD out of his desk drawer and unwrapped it, the crinkling cellophane sounding as loud as a string of firecrackers in the silent room.

He’d have preferred his first hearing of a brand-new Gareth Kendrick album to be piped through better speakers than the ones on his computer monitor, but if anyone needed the stroke of that velvet voice, compelling yet plaintive, it was this bunch tonight. Though David had to admit that as much as he loved Hunter’s Moon’s music, and Gareth’s vocals as its front man, his voice had never stirred him the way Dr. Kendrick’s did.

Awkward.

He inserted the disk into the optical drive of his computer and cued up the first track. An acoustic stringed instrument played an intro—not a guitar, for all that Gareth was the lead guitarist for his band. It almost sounded like a lute or a harp.

Whatever.

The melody, even without lyrics, caused a catch in his throat and a prickle in the corner of his eyes. All the clients in the waiting room raised their heads, the longing on their faces probably matching the expression on his own.

Gareth’s voice slipped in, twining around the harp like a long-lost lover, the language unrecognizable until David caught the word cariad—Welsh for darling. He closed his eyes and clutched the edge of his desk. God, if he didn’t move, he’d start to weep, and even though his dancing was enough to bring tears to others’ eyes—and not in a good way—he didn’t think collapsing into a sodden mess was his best professional choice.

The clients must have felt the same because all of them were swaying in their seats in time to the music. One of the women stood and began to dance. Another joined her. Then another.

Oh what the hell.

David launched himself out of his chair, sashayed around his desk, and joined the gyrating group in the middle of the room.