Kitty's House of Horrors

Chapter 4

At 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.

I said, “So you know all about the proving to Conrad here that we’re real and stuff, right?”

“Joey did explain to us the basic premise, yes.”

“Wow,” I said. “This is going to be so much fun.”

“Look,” Conrad said. “I don’t want to be judgmental, especially when it comes to someone’s lifestyle choices. But there are such things as artificial fangs. People have ritualistically drunk blood for thousands of years. There’s a logical explanation for all of this. And there’s really no way of proving any of you are as old as some vampires claim to be.”

Jeffrey turned to me. “Kitty, you know a lot of vampires through your show, right? How old is the oldest you’ve ever met?”

I kept getting pegged as an expert on this stuff. Probably because I kept sticking my neck out. Ah well.

“Most of them aren’t very forthcoming about their ages. Information is power, and they don’t want to give it away. But the oldest vampire I’ve ever met is about two thousand years old.”

Uncomfortable murmurs and shifting on sofas met the announcement. Even Anastasia looked impressed, narrowing her gaze and studying me as if I had suddenly become interesting.

“But you only have the guy’s word for it,” Conrad argued. “It’s not like you can go back and get a picture or a birth certificate to prove he was alive two thousand years ago.”

“Oh, I believed him,” I said quietly. The vampire in question was not someone I ever wanted to meet again. I didn’t want to dwell.

“What about you two?” Jeffrey said to the vampires. “How old are you?”

Anastasia smiled. “As Kitty said, we’re not forthcoming. Perhaps I’ll mention it later. If you’re paying attention.”

“This is what all these conspiracies and fables have in common,” Conrad said. “Lots of mystery and obfuscation, no actual facts. Are you surprised there are skeptics out there?”

I could see it now, we were going to spend the whole two weeks arguing semantics and trying to prove negatives. I said, to no one in particular, “You know what’s going to be hard about this? I won’t be able to just hang up on someone when they say something stupid.”

We settled into conversation, which migrated, as conversations tend to. Whenever the topic veered into controversial territory—or whenever Conrad declared his disbelief in all of us—Ariel was the one who kept things on track, making light observations or drawing anecdotes from us. That was her talent, and the thing that made her radio show different from mine: She made people feel good about themselves, until everyone was comfortable talking. I had to respect her. Jeffrey and Tina told behind-the-scenes stories from their shows, Grant and Macy talked about how they got their starts, and so on. Conrad even asked questions, although he looked like he didn’t quite believe the answers.

The remote valley and lodge didn’t have cell reception, but Provost provided a satellite phone. Which was good, in case we needed to call the fire department or something—the fire department that would then need two hours and a helicopter to get out here. It was way too soon into this gig to be missing urban living.

The trouble was, there was one phone and several people who wanted to use it. Yes, we supernaturals tended to be a lonely lot, drifting hither and yon without friends and family… or not. Conrad had a wife and two kids, and he spent half an hour catching up with them. Tina spent ten minutes talking to one of her colleagues from her own TV show. Ariel had a boyfriend whom she was more than happy to talk about. “He has a tattoo parlor, he’s a really great artist, everyone in LA goes to him for their tats, he did the ink on my back—that’s how we met. Isn’t that romantic?” And so on. Lee had a girlfriend in Alaska. I didn’t listen in on any of the calls, however much I wanted to. I had some sense of propriety.

Besides, the show people were taping them all, and I’d get to listen when Supernatural Insider broadcast.

Finally, it was my turn. I called Ben. He answered on the first ring.

First thing I said was, “This phone call may be recorded to ensure quality exploitative entertainment.”

“Right,” he answered. “So I guess that means no highly descriptive phone sex.”

I blinked. I had to think about that for a second. “You were planning phone sex?” I sounded a little sad.

“And how are you, Kitty?” he said, amused. “Going stir-crazy yet?”

“I haven’t even been here a day—how can I be going stir-crazy?”

He chuckled. “Maybe because I am.”

Aw, wasn’t that sweet? We carried on like a couple of saps for far too long. Mainly, he kept prompting with questions and I kept talking about the scenery. The show’s editors weren’t going to get anything juicy out of this conversation.

“How’s Cormac’s hearing shaping up?” I said. “Is everything on track?”

“Everything’s on track,” he said. “There’s really nothing I can do until the hearing itself. I’d rather not think about it—I’ll get even more nervous.”

“I’m rooting for you guys.”

“I’ll let him know,” he said.

“I should get going,” I said finally, realizing how late it was and how tired I was from traveling. “I’ll call again as soon as I can.”

“Okay. I’ll try to survive.”

“You do that. But the next time I go to a remote mountain lodge, you’re coming with me,” I said.

One by one, the others had all gone to bed, leaving the vampires and their human servant on the sofas in front of the fireplace. It was just them and me now. They looked at me with that sultry, sidewise glance that seemed to come naturally to vampires. The hypnotic gaze that made you want to look at them and made it easier for them to trap you. I frowned back.

“Aren’t you guys going to get kind of bored, sitting up all night while everyone else is asleep?”

Anastasia’s gaze narrowed. “I’m sure we’ll find ways to amuse ourselves.”

That made me a little nervous for some reason. “Should I be worried?”

Gemma giggled, and Anastasia’s smile grew indulgent. “No more so than usual.”

“Though Tina’s hung a garlic clove on the inside of her door,” Gemma said, still giggling.

Great—the psychic was worried. Did that mean I should be?

I looked at Dorian, the fabulous specimen of manhood sitting on the armchair across from Gemma and Anastasia. He hadn’t said a word yet, but we could change that. “What about you, Dorian? Are you enjoying yourself?”

He didn’t answer. Smiling, he looked at Anastasia, who said, “I think he’s enjoying himself just fine.”

Maybe this was going to be a little more of a challenge than I thought. I moved around the room, closer to him, and leaned on the back of the sofa. Not too close. Close enough to look him in the eye. He watched me calmly, a smile playing on his lips. Not bothered, not threatened. Just unworried. I studied him obviously, peering one way or another.

“So. You guys take the master-and-servant thing pretty seriously.”

“Dorian’s under my protection. It’s a duty I take seriously,” Anastasia said.

“Here’s the thing,” I said, moving around to the front of the sofa and taking a seat among them all. “My whole career is based on getting people to talk. Talk radio, that’s how it works. So Dorian here may be under orders not to talk, or maybe has decided not to talk, but I see that as a challenge. Because if there was some real reason for him not to talk to anyone, you wouldn’t risk him interacting with anyone and leave him in the basement instead. But I’m betting Provost and Valenti and the rest wanted to get this little relationship on camera. So at some point, when you all least expect it, I’m going to get him to talk.” I glared the challenge at them all.

“I like her,” Dorian said, with a faint precise accent that might have been English.

Pouting, I sat back. Well. So much for that little speech. “Dang. Steal my thunder, why don’t you.”

His smile was wry, and his eyes gleamed. Damn, he was hot. I said, “So now that you’re talking can I ask you a question, Dorian? You have a portrait in the attic or what?”

Dorian groaned and shook his head. Anastasia actually threw the pillow from her sofa at me. Throw pillow. Ha.

Gemma stared blankly. “What’s so funny?”

“Oh, I forget how young you are,” Anastasia said to her. “Never mind, I’ll have a book for you to read later.”

I took note of that bit of information.

We talked for a while longer, mostly Anastasia asking questions about my show and how I’d gotten my start. She didn’t dig too deeply—I didn’t tell her anything I hadn’t mentioned on the air at one point or another. I expected her to ask how I’d become a werewolf—a traumatic episode on several fronts that I didn’t like talking about. But she didn’t. Almost like she knew, or suspected that I didn’t want to talk about it.

Then I really was too tired to keep my eyes open much longer. As a kid I’d been to sleepovers where if you were the first one to fall asleep you’d wake up with stuff written on your face in lipstick. I didn’t want to know what happened when you fell asleep in front of a couple of vampires. So I said good night and trundled upstairs to my room.

My room was on the second floor, in a corner, with a lovely view. I was looking forward to shutting the door and getting to sleep. Not looking forward to being in bed alone.

Odysseus Grant didn’t startle me and make me jump the way he might have. I smelled him first: the clean and quiet smell of a man who didn’t like to leave a trace. He stood at the end of the hallway, by the door to my room. “Kitty. Could I speak to you a moment?”

“What is it?”

“I only wanted to ask you to keep your eyes open. Have you heard of something vampires call the Long Game?”

My heart did a double-beat. My smile fell as my whole face went slack.

“Then you have heard of it,” Grant said, a wry curl to his lips.

I shook my bemusement away. Tried to clear my head. “Why are you asking? Cleaned up all of Vegas’s supernatural problems and need a new challenge?”

“What do you know about it?” he said.

“It’s a political thing, I think. It’s hard getting a straight answer out of them, but from what I gather there are some vampires trying to consolidate power. Trying to form some kind of monolithic vampire organization. Now, I’m not sure if this means they’re trying to take over the world—or if this is just something they play around with because after two thousand years of hanging out a guy gets bored. To tell you the truth, I’m not really sure I want to know. I just want to stay out of it.”

He raised a brow. I recognized the expression: wry disbelief. When was I ever able to stay out of anything?

“Will that be possible?” he asked.

“Not if I keep sticking my nose in it. So… you’re here because you think this has something to do with the Long Game? You think Anastasia—”

He put a finger over his lips, then said, “Just keep your eyes and ears open for me.”

“What have you heard?” I said. But he’d already walked to the other end of the hall and disappeared into his own room.

I looked around for the hidden cameras. Because damned if this wouldn’t play well on reality TV.