Creature of the Night

by Anne Stinnett

  © 2018 Anne Stinnett

  http://wickedelfchild.com

  Cover Art by Eugene Teplitsky

  http://eugeneteplitsky.deviantart.com

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information about Subsidiary Rights, Bulk Purchases, Live Events, or any other questions - please contact Blue Eye Books at wickedelfchild@gmail.com.

  mily ran a hand over her already smooth hair and took a deliberate breath. She didn’t look like her typical self today because today wasn’t a typical day. Except for occasions (and if appearing on the highest rated series ever didn’t qualify, what would?) she wasn’t one to bother much with makeup, or fancy clothes, or doing anything more complicated with her hair than brushing it and throwing it into her signature ponytail. Did people have signature ponytails? Still, she looked good. Good but not threatening. Not bad for a librarian. Former librarian, she reminded herself. It was fascinating how deeply one’s career touched the definition of oneself. But that life was over now; whether it was with a bang or a whimper remained to be seen. She had researched all she could in preparation for the coming days, but the distinction between theory and practice was going to be made brutally clear in less than twenty minutes. Assuming, that is, that they started on time.

  She wiped her palms on her pant legs. Her hands trembled. She couldn’t remember the last time her hands had trembled. Untrue, she corrected herself. She could always remember; she chose not to. The past was past. Now was the time to push her terror aside and focus on ensuring she had a future. Because, in the immortal words of F.D.R., the only thing to fear was fear itself, and she clung to the banal comfort because, well, any port in a storm. Oblivious to the cascade of helpless adages, her hands continued to shake. Frankie D’s judgment was suspect. He had been spared the excruciating knowledge of the things that go bump when they come to kill you in the night. Those things had not lurked outside his bedroom. As far as you know, Emily amended. Nevertheless, she had signed the contract, deposited the check, and Emily did not believe in second–guessing her thoroughly mulled decisions. She wouldn’t turn back if she could.

  Everything she was about to endure would be worth it, as would all she was poised to inflict. Every action that tarnished her character would eventually fade in her memory until the prize she was about to earn made any remnants of regret insignificant. Knowledge was Emily’s god, and there was no more devout disciple.

  One thing she would do when this was over would be to look into the history of the house. Her bedroom alone sported a pair of gargoyles perched on pillars to either side of the walk-in fireplace. It was a bit much for Emily, who had grown up in a ranch house indistinguishable from most of its neighbors. On the other hand, the Manor might have sprung from the union of an uptight Victorian and a sprawling Southern Plantation, with a touch from a creepy Roman uncle during the formative stages. Emily suspected this was some architectural mishmash created just for them. She would soon have time enough and more for that and any other lovely mystery that caught her attention.

  Emily checked her watch again. Sixteen minutes to eternity.

  Madeline scowled at her outfit and wished she were back at the Manor, preferably cowering under the four-poster bed. The producers had put her in pink, for fuck’s sake. She could have forgiven the wardrobe people for wanting to make her appear a bit more mainstream, but pink, that was downright sadistic. She felt like she was eight years old again, bored and sweaty in her Sunday dress, waiting for her parents to drag her to church. Madeline loved her parents, as much as she could love anything so foreign, but these people were different.

  She had come here planning to be nothing more or less than herself, and they had rendered her unrecognizable. They can pry my eyeliner from my cold dead hands, she had thought, smirking at her cleverness. Madeline’s hands were still warm and quite alive, but they had scrubbed away her black eyeliner. Ironically, she was wearing more makeup than she ever had, but now it was tasteful.

  Such is the price we pay for our dreams.

  At least they hadn’t lasered off her tattoos. As far as she could tell, they owned her body (if not her soul) until the final, “Cut.” But none of that mattered. Current styling choices excepted, Madeline had always stubbornly done things her way no matter what indignities life (or her peers) threw at her, and she would ride that stubborn wave to victory.

  She knew she was meant to be here. Some people were born dark and brave and destined for extraordinary things. Eternal things. Madeline knew what she was, and soon the world would be forced to accept her truth. She had already started referring to herself as “Mistress Madeline,” sometimes aloud, much to the discomfiture of anyone in her vicinity. These third person references invariably led to snickering, often disguised, sometimes not, but Madeline didn’t give a shit what other people thought. In fact, not caring was her thing.

  Of course, that intrepid attitude came with a price, but again, it didn’t matter now. There was one unassailable truth in which to take comfort: Madeline would never have to pay that particular price again. She would never have to go back.

  She might never get to go back. Even though, maybe someday, a visit wouldn’t be so bad. She was free again to be herself. Looking herself was another matter.

  Madeline understood these imposed changes reflected some perceived deficiency. But, she knew how to meet derision with defiance, and she would defy everyone who had ever judged her for being different by winning and becoming the epitome of Madeline. Mistress Madeline. Unfortunately, she had felt more like that dark and beautiful creature back in her room at the Manor.

  A week of living in gothic splendor hadn’t led her to anticipate the sterility of her dressing room. Her room at the Manor looked as though mysterious drafts were the preferred method of climate control and a spider's web might inhabit every corner. Although these authentic touches were regrettably absent, the ambiance was there, and that was important. Here, she was surrounded by earth tones and daffodils.

  And the outfit. For the outfit, someday, she would make them pay. The thought of future revenge fortified her resolve, much of which had disappeared along with her familiar clothes and painted face. There were a lot of people on Madeline’s revenge list.

  Mistress Madeline sat on the couch in her pressed khakis and pink sweater set to wait. Thirteen minutes to go. Lucky thirteen.

  Twenty floors up, Little P finally gave up on waiting for The Voice’s secretary to acknowledge his presence, cleared his throat for courage, and spoke. “Is he in?”

  Rose didn’t bother looking at Little P. “He’s in.”

  “Is he…” In a good mood? Already drunk? Waiting for someone, anyone, to walk into his office so he could fire them? None of these things could be said to Rose, although they were all valid questions.

  “Is he what?” Rose had been with The Voice for a decade and had abundant disdain for Little P, who, despite being the right hand of The Voice, was too recent an acquisition to merit her respect.

  Little P went with a different approach. “Can I go in?”

  “He is waiting for you,” Rose said.

  The Voice, aka Executive Producer, aka God, hit Little P with a question the second he walked into the office. “What are you going to do about the lineup for the girls’ intro? I’m not happy with it.”

  Little P stole a look at his watch. The lineup would be a matter of history in less than ten minutes. “What would you like me to do, Sir?” Little P averted his eyes from The Voice’s basilisk— like glare and tried to focus on the printout being waved vigorously under his nose.

  “I want you to fucking fix it,” The Voice said. “I don’t want the boring one to be first up. I
t’ll set the wrong tone.”

  “Of course,” Little P said. “Which one would you like–”

  “The crazy one, of course. It’s always good to lead with crazy.”

  “Absolutely,” Little P agreed. “I’ll take care of it.”

  “What about the other thing? Are they here?”

  “Yes, sir,” Little P said, noticing The Voice’s handmade suit had acquired a splotch of mustard. “They are.”

  The Voice raised a shaggy eyebrow and stared at his subordinate. “All of them?”

  “Well, all of them that we expected to be punctual.” Little P had to take his victories where he could. “And he’s not one of the regular judges. We don’t need him until—”

  “Find him.” The Voice didn’t raise his, but his displeasure was clear. “I want him here when we start.”

  Little P goggled at the impossibility of the command. Nevertheless, he answered back with a peppy, “Yes, sir!” On his way out, he caught Rose rolling her eyes and wondered if she had been listening or if his mere existence provoked her scorn.

  Cassie was feeling good today. Strong. She’d been doing everything in her power to keep limber without overdoing it. Her current workout routine included baby stretches and other gentle moves. Moves that a year ago, and with a certain amount of affectionate condescension, she had encouraged her grandmother to do.

  Feeling good was to be expected. In spite of the devastating diagnosis her doctor had spouted, glibly, as though it wouldn’t ruin her existence, the rigors of everyday life weren’t yet a problem. She could still walk to the grocery store or tackle a couple flights of stairs with the best of them. The problem was her career. It didn’t mix with her disease.

  She was going to fix it. And if she couldn’t fix it, it wouldn’t matter. There were only two possible outcomes, and that meant simple. Easy–peasy, lemon squeezy. She smiled at her reflection and nodded firmly. She could do this. She’d worked all her life to be strong in mind and body. Her body was doing its best to fail her, but her mind had worked out a solution, a way to keep her dreams alive.

  Beneath her surface confidence lurked a swirl of dark dread, but she had labeled it stage fright with some anticipation of formidable competition thrown in—both of which she had dealt with countless times. The only difference here was there would be no other chances.

  People who've lost everything are best prepared to make the most of whatever chance they get, and Cassie had lost everything except her determination. Sure, her life looked okay on the outside: she had a nice boyfriend, a cat that was as devoted as a cat could be, and a beautiful apartment all waiting for her return. She could still teach. This splashy, last–ditch effort to return to her previous existence, her healthy existence could turn out to be a waste of everything she’d ever done, a waste of everything anyone had ever done for her.

  She examined those subversive thoughts and dismissed them. Again. It didn’t matter that there were scraps of her life that resisted destruction. Whether she was in the mood to call it God, or fate, or chance; something had blasted to smithereens the life she had chosen for herself. Everything that was the essence of the person she had worked so hard to become was gone for now. Maybe it was gone for good.

  There was a tap on the dressing room door followed by a voice calling, “Five minutes.”

  “Thank you,” Cassie whispered.

  Portia. It wasn’t the name her fanatically traditional parents had bestowed, but it had been hers for the last fifteen years. Fifteen years of no big break, minimal encouragement, and being the envy of no one, but perhaps that was too much resentment to hang on a mere name.

  Life was about to change. There would be no more doing theater for snotty (literally and figuratively) little shits who, for the most part, were more in need of a good belting than of an afternoon watching Portia play Peter Pan.

  Which hadn’t even paid scale.

  And there would be no more waiting tables. Portia was never going to touch a plate again after this, not even her own. There would be people for that. She’d have someone to cut her food and fork it right into her mouth. She could hire someone to chew for her if she wanted, but she wouldn’t, of course. That would be going too far.

  As ridiculous as this was, it would put her on the map. In fact, that stardom would soon be in her well–manicured clutches was guaranteed once you factored in the bonus benefits. This was the big-time. In the next few minutes she would be a household name. All she had to do was win, and then it would be back to the movies, but this time there would be luxurious trailers and a bevy of underlings. She’d be in the Hollywood issue of Forbes, and the world would adore her. Then, she would tell Charles he could go fuck himself. Portia was sick of his endless support that did nothing but remind her she was a failure. Being on a fucking soap didn’t grant him license to pity his wife.

  It wasn’t as though Charles had ever starred in a movie. She had. It hadn’t won an Oscar, but it had gotten her a SAG card. The ad in Backstage West had referred to the film as “artistic.” The thirty-three thousand five hundred and seventy-two people who had seen it understood it to be soft porn in spite of its noticeable lack of eroticism.

  Would they be calling “action?” She had three minutes left to wonder.

  Mandy came out of the bathroom with Mason perched on her hip. She loved the way he smelled after she’d given him a bath. It reminded her of when he’d been a true baby. He wasn’t even two yet, and already she could feel his childhood slipping away.

  Her husband Seth was in the living room prospecting with the remote control. “Hey, Creature is about to start,” he said.

  Mandy settled next to him with Mason on her lap. “Fantastic.” She fiddled with Mason’s plump toes. “Do you think they’re really going to do it?”

  Seth laughed. “You mean the full monty?”

  “It’s a little more serious than getting naked.”

  “Things are different since last season. Legally, I mean.”

  “Yeah, I and the rest of the world are aware.” Mandy set the squirming toddler on the floor. Mason half crawled, half walked over to the television and reached a stubby fingered hand out to touch the face of the blond vampire on the screen.

  Once upon a time, Chaz would have taken a deep breath before going onstage. Now he didn’t need to, and it wasn’t just because he was no longer a breather. It was impossible to be nervous in front of a bunch of humans. You might as well be nervous because a colony of rabbits was looking your way.

  Some time ago, Chaz had been a rabbit. Now he was closer to being a god.

  And then, he spoke. “It’s been a long time coming, but we are back! Welcome to the first episode of what is going to be the best season yet! I know it’s been too long since you’ve gotten to see me, but I’m here now and you, my friends, are about to get what you want! Are you ready?”

  The crowd screamed in response. They were ready. Chaz preened around the stage while the crowd reached out with their voices and their hands, trying to grasp or even momentarily catch the attention of the beautiful creature parading just out of reach. They shouted his name, they roared endearments, they even offered up veins. For Chaz, the adoration was the best part. He didn’t need the rest of the show.

  “For the two of you at home who don’t know, I’m Chaz Hunter, and this is Creature of the Night. Everybody wants to be a vampire, right?”

  Emphatic cries of “Yes!” and “Please!” and “I’ll do anything!” warred with wordless screams of assent.

  “Well, you can’t all be,” Chaz said. “Because then what would we eat? Besides, you guys tried to eradicate us.”

  Delia watched Chaz rile the audience from backstage and sighed. “I miss the war.” For vampires, the war had been like an endless buffet. For the first time in millennia self-control could be abandoned. For the older ones it had been a time to remember who they were. For Delia, who had been born again in the war, taking what she wanted was natural.

  Beside her, Nod
in snorted. “You were in your element.” Just out of sight of the audience, they had gathered to await their entrance.

  “I don’t remember you turning your nose up at the feast,” Delia said. “It was too bad you missed it, Ed.”

  “The point of remote living,” Edmund said, “is to avoid such trivialities.”

  “Listen to them.” Nodin nudged Edmund who sneered at his eagerness. “Humans. There’s nothing trivial about killing them. Every disposal made the world a bit better.”

  “Speaking of disposals,” Delia said. “Our fourth, have you seen him?”

  “Him being The Imp–”

  “Yes,” Delia said.

  “I didn’t realize you were so close,” Nodin said.

  “We’re not,” Delia said. “But there’s always a bond, don’t you think?”

  The elder vampire considered his own maker. A brief infatuation had led to his rebirth, but not long after that she had left without a word. “No.”

  “Then chalk it up to how nice it always is to catch up with the one who plucked you from humanity and gave you an army.” Delia fluffed her hair and basked in the knowledge that her maker was famous. A lurking stylist scurried over to straighten a lone lock that had been disarranged by Delia’s self-congratulatory primping.

  “Sentiment,” Edmund said, “is a weakness of humanity. Of course, since you and your thousand newborn siblings were created only to serve us in the war, I understand why you still cling to human tendencies.”

  “Do you sound so distressed for any particular reason?” Delia said.

  “I do not sound distressed,” Edmund said. He could not allow the others to glimpse any inappropriate emotion. His role was very clear. “Perhaps your inclination to cling to your human weakness caused me to be overcome with shame.”

  The crowd was chanting and clapping in time. “Eradicate! Eradicate! Eradicate!”

  Onstage, Chaz waggled a finger and said, “Naughty, naughty.” The audience lost it. They howled with laughter, remembering the days when humans thought they could kill a bunch of creatures that could disappear with a poof and were mostly immune to killing. No hard feelings here.