Kitty's House of Horrors

by Carrie Vaughn

  Didn’t matter; she proceeded to ignore me.

  “Odysseus Grant,” the vampire said, in the way of a judge preparing a verdict.

  The magician met her gaze, didn’t flinch. Shocking, astonishing—vampires had power in their gazes. Grant didn’t seem to care. Her gaze didn’t affect him.

  I didn’t necessarily want to be here for this. They faced each other in some kind of silent, telepathic battle.

  “You’re going to ask me about Roman,” Grant said finally. He started pacing, a few steps one way, then back. Calculated, intimidating. “Has he contacted me. Am I working for him. Will I report to him about you. Will I finish you for him.”

  “You can’t finish me.”

  “The difficulty is, I have some of the same questions about you. What are you working for?”

  “Not who am I working for?” she said, her voice smooth as silk. He nodded, the barest inclination of his head. “So, are you working for Roman? Has he sent you to kill me?”

  “Why should I answer your questions when you haven’t answered mine?”

  “You guys are idiots,” I said. They both looked at me like they’d forgotten I was there. Or like they’d expected me to stay polite and quiet. To merely witness.

  Didn’t they know me better by now?

  “You’re the two most powerful people in this house, but that doesn’t automatically make you rivals, does it? So can you please just lay out what you’re really worried about and quit with this clandestine bullshit?” Like my bitching would really get them to be reasonable.

  And yet, after a moment, Grant said, “All right. I learned about Roman last year—with Kitty’s help, I might add. I learned that he controlled Las Vegas—my city—through two different vampires, different fronts that hid his identity. An obfuscating sleight of hand that I can almost appreciate. But I don’t, because this is a being who is consolidating power, who doesn’t want people to know he’s consolidating power. I’m trying to learn more about him. Now, perhaps I should apologize for my suspicion, but you’re a vampire, an old one, and it’s more likely that you’re another front acting on his behalf than an independent force acting against him, as I am. There it is. I’ve laid it all out.”

  She considered him. “Telling me exactly what I’d like to hear. What would show you in the best light in my eyes.”

  “Assuming we’re both telling the truth, we’re both working for the same thing,” Grant said.

  “Assuming,” she said, painstakingly polite.

  “Wait a minute,” I said, raising my hand. Thinking hard—I had to get the thought out before I lost it. This was important. “Why is this about Roman? How would he know about this crazy little reality show, and why would he even care? If he wanted to go after you all, or recruit you, or whatever, why would he do it here? Unless—unless the whole show is a front.”

  Grant had said it himself: fronts behind fronts behind fronts again. This was exactly how Roman operated. Now they were both looking at me, and not as an annoyance. Rather, I was suddenly interesting to them.

  The magician followed the thought through. “If someone like Roman wanted to remove some of his rivals, getting them in one place like this is the perfect opportunity.”

  “Jerome and I found a campsite out in the woods. Like someone’s been out here watching the place.”

  “Roman wouldn’t go through all the trouble,” Anastasia said. “Would he? That would mean Provost is the one working for him.”

  I looked away. “I don’t know. It’s crazy. I’m too full up with conspiracy theories right now. But if you’re both working against Roman, you play into his plans by fighting with each other.”

  “Roman’s plans stretch across centuries,” Anastasia said. “Nothing’s too far-fetched.”

  “If we’re right, what do we do about it?” Grant said.

  “We watch,” she said. “We wait.”

  “Ah, the vampire way,” I said. “I don’t have that much time. I’m going to poke the wasp nest.”

  I stood and went to the back of the lodge, to Provost’s production room.

  chapter 10

  Grant and Anastasia didn’t stop me when I went to the back of the lodge, but I imagined them exchanging one of those “there she goes again” looks.

  It was late. Really late. But I had a feeling Joey Provost was still awake and watching the footage we’d produced, cooking up new angles and sensationalist storylines. No time like the present to bug him. Besides, if he had been watching the current conversation via one of the remote cameras and microphones, and he was part of some kind of conspiracy, I wanted to get him before he came up with a cover story to deny it all. I wanted to catch him flat-footed.

  I knocked on the library door. Behind it, I could hear an audio track and hushed voices under it. I knocked again and waited.

  Amy, who must have been the one on duty with the monitors tonight, finally opened the door.

  “Yes?”

  “I’d like to speak to Joey,” I said.

  “Er, ah—” She glanced over her shoulder. Looked like she was thinking about whether she’d screw up by letting me talk to Provost—or by not letting me talk to him. “Is there a problem?”

  “Oh, not really. I just have a couple of suggestions for him. You know. To really make the show pop.” Heh. I knew just enough of the lingo to make me dangerous.

  “What is it?” Provost called from inside.

  I preempted Amy by calling back, “It’s me! I wanted to talk to you for a sec. If that’s okay.”

  Provost appeared at the door then, and Amy scampered away and out of the cross fire.

  “Kitty! What can I do for you?” He pretended to sound happy to see me. However, the tension in his face showed annoyance.

  “Hi. I’m just here breaking the fourth wall. Or fifth wall. I’m not really sure how the metaphor applies here.”

  “Is there something wrong? What do you need?”

  “I have a little theory I want to run by you.”

  He stepped out of the library and closed the door behind him. We were standing in an isolated corner now, watching each other, waiting.

  I said, “Are you really working for SuperByte Entertainment? Or do you report back to someone else, and there’s an ulterior motive to all this?”

  He chuckled. “That’s kind of crazy-sounding,” he said.

  “Yeah, I know. But look at it from a certain point of view. You’ve gathered together almost all the public movers and shakers who have anything to do with the supernatural, who personally know lots of others. And now you’re tracking their every move, recording their scheming. And it’s like you’re gathering information. Or waiting for something to happen.”

  “Like what?”

  “That’s just it, I don’t know. But do you by any chance know a vampire named Roman?”

  His expression turned thoughtful. I couldn’t tell whether I had touched a nerve or not; he was unreadable. “No. But I’d sure love to meet him. Maybe bring him on if we do a second season.”

  That would be so very bad… “It’s not that I’m accusing you personally of anything. But I wonder if we’re all dupes, and there’s someone who’s manipulating all of this. A puppet master pulling the strings.”

  He stared at me, and I couldn’t tell if he thought I was crazy, or if he was the crazy one, I’d gotten everything right, and he was about to go gonzo on me.

  Finally, he chuckled nervously. The look in his eyes was spooked. So, he thought I was crazy. I could live with that.

  “I suppose you’d have to develop a pretty good imagination, and a pretty healthy paranoia, given what you are,” he said. “You’d have to believe in the unbelievable.”

  It wasn’t a denial. He didn’t give me the smarmy Hollywood reassurances I expected. We continued sizing each other up.

  “I guess if you really were in on some kind of conspiracy, I couldn’t expect you to come out and admit it. Maybe I just wanted to see the look in your eyes. Just in ca
se.”

  The smile still looked nervous. Which was probably understandable, given a werewolf was standing here accusing him of plotting.

  “There’s no conspiracy,” he said. Then his expression brightened. “But if you want to play that up, that could be a great thread for the show. I’ll mention it to the editors. We could get this whole suspense-thriller thing going.”

  That was the response I should have expected. “Okay. You do that.”

  “Now, if you don’t mind, I need to get back to it.” He pointed a thumb over his shoulder to the library. I waved a quick farewell and trundled back to the living room.

  “Well?” Grant said when I’d returned.

  “I think he thought I was crazy,” I said. “Oh well. I had to try it.”

  Anastasia tilted her head. “Should we consider that maybe he’s a really good actor?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I guess we’re back to watch and wait.” They still held themselves in wary stances. But at least they weren’t poking at each other anymore. “You guys are done with all the veiled accusations?”

  Anastasia’s lip curled. “For now.”

  I threw up my hands and marched upstairs.

  Again, I awoke far too early, and far too grouchy. I was having nightmares about Roman and thinking too much about vampire conspiracies.

  I went downstairs to get the coffeemaker started. It wouldn’t turn on. In fact, the whole kitchen was quiet, still—no hum from the refrigerator, no rattle from the furnace. I tried the light switch—nothing. The lodge ran on a combination of solar power and gasoline generator. Something must have gone out.

  I went to the library door and knocked. Not that Provost and company would be at work this early; I wasn’t surprised when no one answered. I went in. A trio of chairs sat in front of wide tables, filled with TV monitors and equipment. All the monitors were dead—nothing was on, not even the red lights on the power strips. Upstairs, Provost and his production crew were using the three rooms at the end of the hallway. I went to Provost’s door next. I knocked—and got no answer.

  “Kitty, what’s wrong?” Grant stood halfway down the hall, near his own room. He was neatly dressed as always. I wondered if he ever changed clothes and went to bed.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “The power’s gone out. I was going to tell Provost, but I can’t find him.”

  Brow creased thoughtfully, he went to the light switch at the top of the stairs, flipped it a couple of times. Not because he didn’t believe me, I was sure. He just had to try it himself. Nothing happened. “Odd,” he said.

  I leaned close to the door and called, “Joey?” I took a chance and cracked the door.

  The room was empty, the beds undisturbed. The other two crew rooms were also empty, though suitcases sat in the corners and clothes lay on one of the beds. Grant joined me, looking into the rooms over my shoulder.

  “Thoughts?” I said. He shook his head, pensive. I squeezed around him and went back downstairs, to retrieve the satellite phone from the library. It ran on batteries, and it was time to make a call.

  I looked, searching all the shelves, the tables, behind equipment, under cameras, in drawers. Then I searched the living room, under cushions, behind chairs and sofas. I opened every drawer and cupboard in the kitchen. Grant joined me in the middle of the search.

  “I can’t find the phone,” I said.

  “That’s not good,” he said, his expression unchanging.

  “Should we check on the generator? Maybe we can get the power back, then figure out where Provost and company went.” Maybe they were off on a nature hike.

  “I think it’s in the shed,” he said.

  Grant and I went out the front door, on our way to the shed at the side of the lodge. I stopped on the porch, hardly noticing the magician crowding behind me. I’d frozen, because I was staring at Dorian’s body, lying on the ground by the porch.

  chapter 11

  Part of the railing around the porch had broken. It looked like the nails or the joints had come loose from the posts and the whole thing toppled to the ground. And it looked like Dorian had been leaning on it when it happened. Stepping out on the porch, I looked over the edge and saw him, lying still and crumpled on the ground. Dark blood pooled by his head. I could smell his body cooling, and his heart was silent.

  Of all the stupid, ugly accidents. “He came out here sometimes,” I said weakly. “To watch the sunrise.”

  I went down the steps, approached Dorian, looked back at the porch, trying to figure out what had happened. He’d been leaning on the railing. Maybe it had just given way. He fell wrong, hit his head, maybe even hurt his neck. A stupid accident.

  “Kitty?” Grant said. He came down the steps to join me, making the same quick examination I did.

  “It doesn’t make sense,” I said. “I leaned on that railing. We all did. That thing was stable. What the hell happened?”

  “He’s heavier. Maybe he just hit a bad spot.”

  “A fall like that shouldn’t have killed him. It was only a few feet.” I started crying. I turned away to hide the silent tears running down my cheeks. I’d just gotten to know him. Just gotten to like him. It wasn’t fair.

  Grant said, “Provost might have footage from the remote cameras that might explain this.”

  But were the cameras still running without power? “Except Provost is gone, along with the phones. We can’t call for help.”

  Grant looked around as if he expected some kind of attack, as if searching the treetops for a hidden enemy. “There’s a radio in the airplane.” He marched out, heading toward the path that led from the lodge to the airstrip.

  I hurried after him, taking a last look at Dorian. I hated leaving him alone—but I hated leaving Grant alone, too.

  Within sight of the airplane parked at the edge of the meadow, I stopped. A breath of air touched my face, and with it came the smell of carrion.

  “What is it?” Grant asked. He studied me; I turned my nose to the air to track the scent. It was making me queasy, making me want to howl.

  “Bodies,” I whispered. This didn’t smell like meat, like the deer Jerome had dropped in front of the house the other day. This smelled like bodies. “It’s coming from the plane.”

  I ran forward, Grant on my heels. The smell grew stronger. I reached the cabin door and rattled the handle, struggling with it a moment before finally wrenching it open.

  The three production assistants lay on the floor of the cabin, dead. Side by side, curled up and crammed in, Gordon first, then Skip, then Amy. Purple bruises ringed their necks, as if they’d been garroted. I gripped the door, my heart racing, my breaths stumbling. I wanted to run, and my wolfish instincts howled.

  Provost, Valenti, and Cabe were still missing.

  “What’s it mean?” I said, catching my breath, struggling to stay calm.

  Grant moved to the cockpit and opened the door. “Look at this. It’s the radio,” he said, gesturing to a box that had been gutted, wires hanging out. So much for making contact with the outside world that way.

  “What’s going on? Who did this?” And where were they now? I turned, looking out over the meadow and surrounding woods. I walked around the airplane, searching, smelling, trying to find a trail. I smelled people, moving back and forth. The whole path smelled like people, and the airstrip smelled like fuel and tire skids overlaying the natural smell of the valley. Nothing stood out, nothing gave me a clue about who had done this or where they’d gone.

  Grant was sitting in the pilot seat, flipping switches—that he’d know anything about flying a plane didn’t surprise me. The engine coughed, sputtered, and died. “Out of fuel,” he said. “Someone’s drained the fuel tank.”

  Leaving us good and stuck. I tried to be shocked but felt resigned.

  Grant hopped out of the cockpit and closed the door. I returned to staring at the bodies in the cabin. They didn’t deserve this. This had been just another job, and now—

  Grant
closed the cabin door, blocking my view. I shook myself clear of the image.

  “What should we do with them?” I said.

  “Leave them for now. We need to wake the others.”

  As it turned out, we didn’t have to wake up the others. We heard a loud, shocked scream as we approached the lodge. This one was different than when Tina discovered Jerome’s deer carcass. This one was all about volume and fear. Not another murder came my first thought, and I ran. I’d find the murderer, catch him and tear him apart—

  Ariel had discovered Dorian’s body. She was standing on the front porch, hands over her mouth, looking down. Tina, Jerome, and Jeffrey were with her.

  How were we going to tell them that this wasn’t the worst of it? Slowly, I climbed the steps. The group on the porch followed me with shocked, questioning gazes, expecting me to say something. I didn’t know where to start.

  “The power’s out,” I said. “The phone’s gone, and the radio in the airplane is busted. We can’t find Provost anywhere.”

  “What are you saying?” Jerome demanded, angry. Like being fierce could solve this, could make everything right again. “What the hell’s going on?”

  Grant stepped up beside me, his lip curled into a thin smile. “I think we’ve been had.”

  The others went inside to wake up Lee and Conrad and gather everyone in the living room. Grant and I examined the area where Dorian had been standing and where he’d fallen. Looking for footprints, odd smells, hints of foul play. Like some kind of detective novel. Didn’t Agatha Christie do this one already?

  I smelled Provost. Didn’t mean anything, because he’d been in and out of here all week, on the porch, sitting, standing, walking. I found footprints, but again, Provost and his crew had been going back and forth the whole time we’d been here. I didn’t know enough about forensics to know if the wound on Dorian’s head was caused by the fall or by someone sneaking up on him and hitting him.

  Grant found something, a scorch mark at the joint that had held the railing to the post. “A small explosive might have weakened the joint at an opportune time. It wouldn’t even have to be loud enough to hear.”