Kitty's House of Horrors (5 page)

“Video footage can be faked,” he said. “As for Congress—they’re being manipulated by lobbyists. I think it’s pharmaceutical
companies inventing new ‘diseases’”—he actually did the finger quotes—“in order to get research funding that they have no
intention of using for research.”

I couldn’t help it; I giggled. “Shit, you’re going to make me shape-shift right here in front of you, aren’t you?”

“I look forward to it,” he said calmly.

Provost raised a hand to point at the cameras. “Kitty, if you could watch the language? And please—no shape-shifting. Not
just yet.”

Lee crossed his arms. “
That’s
the setup for the show. We’re supposed to spend the next two weeks convincing him that all this is real. Then watch him freak
out when he can’t deny it anymore.”

“No, seriously,” I said, still stifling giggles. “It’ll only take five minutes. I’ll shift right now, take a little run—that’s
some great wolf territory out there. Then we can all go home.”

“Kitty,” Provost said with forced patience. I had a feeling I was going to be hearing that tone of voice a lot. “We’d like
this to be a gradual revelation. If we do it right you won’t have to shape-shift at all.”

“And we won’t break his little mind quite so badly, right?” Tina added.

“Whatever,” I said, still giggling. “Is there any of that wine left? I think I could use a drink.”

P
rovost introduced us to the rest of the crew—Ron Valenti and another co-producer named Eli Cabe would be doing most of the
technical work on the show. They’d also brought along a trio of production assistants—Skip, Amy, and Gordon—to help. They
were eager twenty-somethings, who seemed giddy to be working on a real show—any show. This was their foot in the door. They
looked the part, dressed in casual jeans and funky T-shirts, with headsets permanently attached to their ears and clipboards
in their hands. Skip had long, dark hair in a ponytail; Amy was petite and energetic, and she tended to shout across rooms;
and Gordon was a bit heavyset and always seemed to be smiling about something. They’d also take care of the catering—the kitchen
was fully stocked and we’d have three hot meals a day. This might even turn out to feel like a real vacation.

The lodge had a back room, off the living room, normally set up as a library or reading room. The production crew had taken
it over and converted it to a studio, where they parked all their cameras, monitors, and editing equipment. Here, they’d review
their footage as it came in and start making the “magic.” It was off-limits to participants, of course. I was already thinking
of how I could sneak a look in.

The show hadn’t officially started taping yet; we were still missing people. The scheduled “activities”—and didn’t that sound
ominous—would start tomorrow. For now, the cameras were getting footage for some kind of introductory montage, and in the
meantime we could all get to know each other. Happily, the lodge had a liberally stocked wine cabinet. It would help to take
the edge off whenever I had to talk to Conrad. I had a feeling it was going to be all too easy to bait this guy.

I started in right away, of course. “Conrad, tell me something: you do believe that astronauts have walked on the moon, right?”

“Of course,” he said.

“And Lee Harvey Oswald was acting alone when he shot Kennedy?”

“Probably, yes.”

“Good, you’re not a complete conspiracy nut.” Just a partial one. “Hey, I have it on good authority from a vampire in Las
Vegas that Oswald used silver bullets. What do you say to that?”

Various skeptical responses followed that announcement. I just grinned. I still hadn’t done the research—like did Kennedy
use the White House silver when he was in office?—to back that one up. I wasn’t sure I believed the vampire who told me this.
But I still wondered.

Lee said, “You’re even more of a loudmouth in person than you are on your show. I thought it was all an act.”

“I became a DJ because I’m a loudmouth, not the other way around,” I said.

An artificial noise intruded—the drone of an airplane descending into the valley. Provost stood and looked out the living
room’s big picture window that gave a view over the porch and into the valley.

“Ah, that’s the last shuttle in, I think,” he said. He actually rubbed his hands with glee.

Moments later, the front door opened. The man who stepped through it was quite possibly the last person I expected to see
here. Oh, the list of people I’d never expect to take part in a show like this was long, and he might not have been quite
the last. But he was close.

“Grant!” I said, setting down my wineglass and standing to meet him. My smile grew wide.

Odysseus Grant was a stage magician who fronted an old-fashioned Vaudevillian-style magic show in Las Vegas, complete with
rabbits pulled from top hats. The act was more than a stage show: Grant really was a magician, or a sorcerer, or something.
A master of arcane knowledge on a crusade against chaos, a real-life Doctor Strange, except even more ominous. He had a box
of vanishing that opened into… somewhere else. A weird pocket dimension was my theory. He’d said he was going to retire the
doorway—I hoped that meant that whatever was inside wasn’t going to be getting out anytime soon.

Frankly, I couldn’t begin to understand much of what Odysseus Grant really did. But I was still happy to see him.

“Kitty,” he said, as warmly as he ever said anything. His smile was thin, but it was there. He was tall, slender, sharp, with
pale hair and stony blue eyes. He wore a white button-up shirt and black slacks and held a suit jacket over his arm.

I didn’t rush to hug him like I had with my other friends. Grant wasn’t a very huggable guy.

“What are you doing here?” I said. “How the hell did they talk you into doing this dog-and-pony show?”

“I’ve been considering taking my show on the road for some time now. This seemed like a way to start,” he said. “I’m not at
all surprised to see you here.”

I shrugged. I’d reconciled myself to the fact that in some respects, I was very predictable.

“Mr. Grant, welcome.” Provost leapt up to shake hands, acting almost deferential toward the magician. Grant had that effect
on people.

Provost made introductions again, and Grant greeted everyone neutrally, sizing them up, looking each person in the eye, studying
them. Calculating. If I didn’t know the guy, and if he hadn’t saved my life once, he’d have made me really nervous. In fact,
Tina and Jeffrey both seemed wary of him, not greeting him quite as warmly as they could have, keeping a good space between
them. I wondered what they saw when they looked at him, what they suspected. If I had to guess what Jeffrey saw in the magician’s
aura, I’d say “power.”

“I suppose you’re here because you think you’re a real magician,” Conrad said.

Grant raised a brow. “I am a real magician.” He reached to Conrad’s head. Conrad flinched, as if he thought Grant was going
to hit him. But Grant only revealed a coin that might have been pulled from behind Conrad’s ear.

He handed it to Conrad, who flushed. “Ha, ha,” the skeptic said.

“Grant, can I get you a drink?” Macy had moved to the liquor cabinet during the commotion.

“Water is fine,” Grant said, which was him all over.

After we’d settled again, and I admired how cozy this all was, gathered on cushy sofas around the rustic fireplace in front
of a window with a killer view, Jeffrey said, “Is this everyone?”

“Uh, no,” Provost said, and he seemed nervous, shifting his position and clasping his hands. “We have a couple more. They
should be getting here any minute.”

He glanced outside the huge picture window. Night had fallen; it was full dark. I couldn’t hear the sound of an approaching
airplane—though a pilot would have to be crazy to try to navigate these mountains at night—so no arrival seemed particularly
imminent. But Provost wasn’t looking at the clearing in front of the lodge, visible in the porch light. He was looking at
the dark sky.

I glanced around the room and noted which prominent variety of supernatural creature was
not
currently represented here. Then a door in the back of the house opened and closed.

“Ah,” Provost said. “That must be them.”

The vampires arrived.

A
t first glance, the two women seemed pressed straight out of the Eurotrash vampire mold. One had black hair, one had chestnut,
both in elaborate buns with apparently no device actually holding them up. They wore blazing red lipstick on pouty lips and
had sultry eyes. The chestnut-haired one wore a tight black dress with a low neckline and high hemline. Frighteningly high
heels. On anyone else the outfit would have been near-formal cocktail attire, but on her it looked like everyday loungewear,
like she’d walk her dog in it. She was beautiful—airbrushed beautiful, with large dark eyes and classic features. You couldn’t
help but watch her. The other was slightly shorter—though both of them wore high heels that made judging their actual height
impossible—with Asian features, dark eyes, and pale ivory skin. She wore flowing black slacks and a cinched-up bustier, embroidered
black on black, and a diamond brooch on a choker.

I had no way of judging their actual ages, but for some reason the shorter one struck me as being older. The way she stood
just a little in front of her companion gave off a protective, big-sister vibe. They both stood, hands on cocked hips, like
they owned the place.

They were so striking, I almost didn’t notice the man standing behind them. He smelled human—his heart beat and his warm blood
was his own. He was young, muscular under his gray slacks and black T-shirt. Square of jaw and thick of hair. I wanted to
look for the label on him that said “Male Model.”

He smelled human, but he also smelled a little like the women, who in turn smelled a little like him. They all had an air
of coolness, and of fresh blood. Then I figured it out: he was their donor. Their human servant, some vampires called it.
I imagined they got a little more than blood out of him. They made quite the trio.

I looked at Provost. “You went out and found the most vampirey vampires you possibly could, didn’t you?”

“Vampires,” Conrad said flatly. Like he didn’t think the show would have the gall to try to convince him that vampires really
existed.

Provost hurried to put himself between the vampires and the rest of us. Come on, I wanted to complain. If he thought this
was going to cause an epic battle, he should have given us some warning.

I knew better than to go up against vampires. Physically, anyway.

“This is Anastasia and Gemma,” Provost introduced the women.

“And this is Dorian,” said the shorter, black-haired Anastasia, gesturing to their cabana boy. “So nice to meet you all.”

She had a confident voice and an American accent, which made it hard to place her actual age and point of origin. Her attitude
seemed old, experienced.

Nobody said anything. It occurred to me that I might have been the only one here who’d dealt with vampires on anything resembling
a regular basis. They tended to be kind of standoffish. But heck, they were people. That was the whole point of my show, that
we were all just people, right? So, apparently it was going to be up to me to get this party started.

“So. How did they drag you all into this little shindig?” I couldn’t think of a more polite way of asking how they were famous
and why hadn’t I heard of them.

Anastasia—such a vampire name—gave a gracious tilt to her head, nodding at her companion. “We’re here because of Gemma.”

I said to Gemma, “And you’re here because…”

Gemma shifted, cocking a leg and a hip forward, tilting back her shoulders—vamping, for lack of a better word. No pun intended,
surely. “I’m the very first Miss Fille de Sang Vampire Pageant winner.”

Everyone else goggled at that, except for Provost, who must have been pleased that the cameras were recording all this. But
I was kind of pissed off.

“Wait a minute, I heard about this,” I said. “In New York, right? Some kind of hoopy vampire nightclub promotional thing.
A publicity stunt. I mean, who ever heard of a vampire beauty pageant? The promoters wouldn’t talk to me.
Nobody
would talk to me. I wanted to interview the winner and they wouldn’t even give me a name.” I jabbed a finger at her. “That’s
no way to get publicity.”

“Maybe they thought you weren’t the right kind of publicity,” Anastasia said. Her smile seemed amused.

“And this is?” I said, pointing at Valenti’s camera. Vampires didn’t always show up on film. They could play with light, which
was why they didn’t always have reflections and why cameras didn’t always capture them. It was part of how they vanished,
how they moved without being seen. They could also control it, when they wanted to. When they wanted the publicity, for example.

“This first pageant was a limited affair,” Anastasia said. “Testing the waters, if you will. Like Joey here, I’m interested
in what opportunities might be open to us if we go public. However, unlike Joey—and you—I’m not convinced it’s safe for us,
yet. You live your life in the open, Kitty. You put yourself and what you are out there—and you’ve faced severe consequences
for it. There are still people out there who would be happy to see us all dead. Vampires, werewolves, psychics, everyone.”
She glanced around at each person in turn.

“We’re not so far removed from the days of burning witches. I’ve heard the argument before.”

“Some of us remember.”

I wasn’t sure how to read Anastasia. I had the impression that dressing to stereotypical vampire standards was an act—it was
expected, and if she was going to be public about her vampirism, she would play to those expectations. She probably had a
good mind for business—most vampires who survived in wealth and luxury did. But what was the act hiding?

“We wanted to meet other people who are going public and being successful at it. At least, that’s why I’m here,” Gemma said.
She and Anastasia smiled at each other. I was fairly certain Anastasia was her Mistress, the one who made her. I couldn’t
read all the layers of connection between them.