“Peter—”
“And you’re not going to show up there to kill him, Ovsanna. I can’t let you do that. You don’t even know for sure if he’s the one who’s after you. Talk to him, fine. Check him out, see if he’s what you think he is. But you’re not going to kill him. That’s a premeditated murder charge.”
“Oh, so it’s okay if you shoot the guy attacking me on the beach and okay if I kill Madelaine Sauvage and okay if you kill DeWayne Carter, but I can’t kill Mick Erzatz? Even though he sent the guy on the beach and that bat-shit woman to kill me?”
“Those were all self-defense killings, Ovsanna, and not one of them was a human being when they attacked. For all we know, this guy is nothing but a has-been agent, which may not classify him as a human being, but it doesn’t mean you can walk into his house and open fangs. I’m going with you to this party. End of story. Do I need my tux?”
He’s so friggin’ Italian, isn’t he? Oh well, I just had to make sure the members of my clan didn’t discuss our specific plans in front of him. Once we got to the party and I was certain Mick Erzatz was the were who’d come into my yard on Christmas Eve, all bets were off. Peter could play good cop all he wanted, I was out for blood. He didn’t need to know that.
Not only did Peter own a tux, but he looked so good in it when he showed up at my house, I wanted to tear it off and ravage him right then and there. I would have, too, if Orson and the others hadn’t arrived while we were standing at the front door, embracing. I was wearing my silver Narciso Rodriguez strapless, which I’d chosen because it was short and I could move in it. I wasn’t sure my breasts would stay covered if I had to do battle, but what the hell. Nude breasts might distract a werebeast or two, and I’d use any advantage I could get. I showed Orson and the others into the living room.
I don’t know where he found one to fit him, but Orson had traded his cape for an actual limo driver’s uniform, complete with a leather-visored chauffeur’s cap, gloves, and a sixteen-rib umbrella. He looked very professional. Enormous, but professional.
James, Ty, and Tod were dressed all in black. Ty had on another cashmere sweater, a turtleneck this time, which didn’t seem very practical to me in the event he might have to shift in a hurry. It matched his cashmere jogging pants. He hadn’t been with us in Palm Springs; he was probably expecting a nice, neat kill, maybe like his bull-fighting days. Well, if we all came out of this in one piece, I’d buy him more cashmere.
Charlie, ever the showman, was wearing camo pants and a camo jacket. He’d covered his face with green greasepaint. On his five-foot-five-inch frame, he looked like a head of hair resting on a short bush. I had to give him credit, though; if he stayed outside, he’d never be noticed.
Mary looked like she should be singing folk songs with Peter and Paul. Flat bangs on a long, straight brown wig and a tie-dyed caftan with a multihued crocheted shawl. All she needed was a guitar with a capo on it. It took a while, but I finally convinced her the outfit would only make people stare at her and she’d eventually be recognized, regardless of the Judy Collins impersonation. She went up to my bedroom to change and came down as a toy Pomeranian, having agreed to let Solgar carry her into the party as the pet he never wants to leave home alone.
The plan was to have Orson drive all eight of us to Montecito in the limousine. Solgar, Peter, and I would attend the party, with Mary in Solgar’s arms, while Jimmy, Charlie, Ty, and Tod stayed hidden behind the privacy screen in the limo.
After Orson dropped us off, he’d find a place to park the car and stay with it as the chauffeur. The fellows would slip out onto the property and hide until I needed them, if I needed them. I couldn’t go into specifics with Peter there, but they already knew from our conversation in Solgar’s office what my real intent was. They were going to have a lot of acreage to explore. Erzatz had an Olympic-size pool, a regulation basketball court, two tennis courts, a boccie court, and a private lake just beyond his back gardens. If I wanted to get a message to them, Mary could jump down and scamper away to find them. An electric train ran on tracks from the house to the vineyards and on up into the hills, where Erzatz had fenced in 250 acres for a wild animal preserve. He told everyone he had helped Michael Jackson by taking Michael’s menagerie when Neverland Ranch went into foreclosure, but now that I knew his true nature, I suspected there were sentient creatures on the property who bore little resemblance to delightful zoo inhabitants. I was pretty certain the hills were crawling with werebeasts.
Mick Erzatz had deigned to do an episode of Cribs, which is how I knew so much about his home. I’d been fascinated seeing this short, pudgy-faced man wearing a martial arts uniform with his paunch hanging over his belt—albeit a black belt—pad through his house in his zoris while he name-dropped all the Hollywood stars he’d represented.
He’d made a fortune off his stars and his movie deals, and he’d spent it building a reproduction of a Japanese castle in the mountains overlooking the Pacific, above Santa Barbara. On camera, it looked impressive. The main building was five stories high, with two adjoining three-story structures. He had original copper and clay roof tiles imported from Hokkaido, along with stone fish and crane sculptures. Inside one of the smaller buildings was a media room, a dojo, a tanning salon, a bowling alley, a dry cleaners, and a room reserved solely for wrapping presents. That was the smaller building.
New Year’s Eve traffic was bad, especially where the 101 narrows to a single lane. It took us two hours and fifteen minutes to make the ninety-minute drive to Montecito. Erzatz had been one of the lucky ones when the Tea fire swept through the area. His property was above the devastation. From the 101 we drove another forty-five minutes up a charred, winding road into the mountains. By the time we saw the lights surrounding the estate, it was after ten. My kindred were chomping at the bit. They knew we were going up against Mick and his clan, even though no one was talking about it in front of Peter. James seemed almost happy, and Orson was bellowing out the theme to Star Wars as he drove. I spent some of the time telling them what I knew about the layout of Erzatz’s house and grounds. Solgar told us what he knew about the guests we might see there—the celebrity wannabes and junior agents who still thought Erzatz could be their ticket to fame and fortune. And the star fuckers who just wanted to be able to say they’d spent New Year’s Eve at a “Hollywood” party. Mick Erzatz was trying to reestablish himself with the power elite, but from what Ernst had heard, most of the studio heads and A-list actors didn’t believe he was worth driving ninety miles to party with.
The castle was built on a twenty-foot-tall stone foundation, with walls that slanted thirty degrees from the leveled peak of a mountain. We drove up a long dirt road, barricaded on either side by round wooden spikes, and came to a stone gatehouse. Female valets dressed as circus performers waited to take the car, while a dozen paparazzi crowded in front of them, ready to get shots of us as soon as the doors opened. I stared through the darkened glass, searching for collars on their necks. If any of them were boxenwolves, I couldn’t tell. They were buttoned up in jackets and scarves. Orson rolled down the front window level with his visor, just enough to tell the valet he wanted to park the car himself so he could stay with it. She waved us through to another gatehouse and then down a road to the right, where sixty or seventy cars were already parked. Maybe Ernst was wrong about the guest list. A valet waited there in a golf cart to drive us back to the castle. She was also dressed as a circus performer. That seemed to be the theme of the evening.
It was borne out by Chinese acrobats forming a human pyramid at the bottom of a long flight of stone stairs. I wondered if this was the act Madelaine Sauvage had hired. We had to climb the stairs to reach the front entrance. “Who decided on a double-coated Pomeranian?” Solgar asked in ancient Armenian, indicating the mass of fur in his arms. “If I’m going to have to carry her all night, she could have at least shifted to a Chihuahua.” Mary barked at him, and one of the acrobats midway up the triangle started to sneeze. I was sure the g
irl at the top was coming down, but somehow she managed to keep her balance. Solgar held Mary’s nose closed to shut her up. She tried to bite him.
“Goddammit, Mary,” I whispered, “if you don’t behave, I won’t even consider hiring you for Thomas’s job. I need your help here. Now shut up and act like Ernst is the best owner a dog could ask for. And for God’s sake, Ernst, carry her under her butt!”
A mime stood at the front door, indicating he wanted to take our coats. It was a Southern California winter night, with a temperature in the high fifties. I could smell rain in the distance. I gave him my black velvet Monique Lhuillier wrap and wondered if I’d see it again. I didn’t think the mime was a thief; I just didn’t know if I’d survive the night.
“This is incredible,” said Peter under his breath. “I knew this guy had money, but I didn’t know how much. Look at the gold leaf on the turrets. Are you sure he’s the one trying to kill you?”
“Trust me, Peter. I’ll make sure before I do anything rash. But let me get near enough to smell him and I’ll know if he’s human or not. That’s the first step.”
Seconds later, I knew. Mick Erzatz was definitely not human.
I suppose it’s like pheromones between a man and a woman. To vampyres, humans give off a specific scent. Maybe it’s the blood running through their veins, just below the skin. It’s subtle and easily overshadowed by the tanning lotions, moisturizers, perfumes, soaps, and deodorants, or lack thereof, that color a person’s hygiene. But it’s always there in humans, whether they stink of body odor or wash in Chanel. Vampyres don’t have it. Dhampir don’t have it. Werebeasts don’t have it.
Mick Erzatz didn’t have it.
Mick Erzatz, despite the orange-vanilla candles burning everywhere and the Royall Spyce cologne he’d lavished on himself, smelled slightly pungent and feral. Just as he had the night he’d attacked me in my backyard.
As far as I was concerned, it was one more confirmation that he was the one who wanted me dead.
“Ernst, you old queen,” he said as he approached us, looking first at Solgar and then at Peter and me. He did a double take when he saw me but recovered quickly. “Give me a hug, Ernie baby. I am fucking surprised, and I am feeling the love. You’d better fire that twat you’ve got working for you. She declined my RSVP.”
“It wasn’t her fault, Mick. I had a change of plans at the last minute and I didn’t think you’d mind.”
“I know what happened. You heard about my New Year’s resolution. Everybody loves a comeback, right, Ernst? I am back in business, and I’m gonna be bigger than Kozakura’s tits. Come on, man, let’s hug it out.” Mick stepped forward to put his arms around Ernst, and Mary let out a growl. Mick backed off.
Ernst continued without missing a beat. “I didn’t want to leave the puppy home alone all night, so I decided to bring her with me. And I’ve brought two friends along, too. I know your parties, Mick, the more the merrier, right?”
“Right as rain, my man. Especially when it’s the beautiful Ovsanna Moore of Anticipation Studios.” He leaned forward and gave me an air kiss. “Hey, did the paps get your picture? You haven’t aged a bit, sweetheart, are you rubbing cum on your face? They say that gets rid of wrinkles. I’m not seeing any scars, either. You really haven’t had any work done, have you? How do you explain that?”
He was asking for it. “I don’t know, Mr. Erzatz. I guess it’s just my DNA.” I could play the game, too. “This is my friend Peter King.”
“Ovsanna—sweetheart—you’ve gotta call me Mick.” He looked Peter up and down. “And you, you’re the detective who caught the Cinema Slayer. You’re a fucking miracle worker. We oughta call you Annie Sullivan. You really closed on that deal, didn’t you? Come on in. What’s your poison?”
We entered a candlelit foyer, and the first thing I saw was a print of Hokusai’s Dream of the Fisherman’s Wife. Two octopi going down on a woman. Made me wonder if any of Mick’s werecreatures were aquatic. There was Japanese erotic art on all the walls. The floors were a beautiful polished black slate. As crude as his language was, he had good taste in décor. Or else a talented designer. The rooms were all post-and-beam construction, with low ceilings and minimal furniture. It looked like he’d brought in tables and chairs and decorations just for the party.
Off to the right of the foyer was a huge banquet hall, with a bar running the length of one side and a disc jockey setup on the other. Black stone pots with white orchids surrounded the dance floor, and on the far side of the room were the food stations. There were cocktail tables dotting the perimeter, all with candles on them.
The rest of the lighting came from above. Hundreds of tiny ceiling lights that changed color constantly. Made the orchids look even more beautiful. Didn’t do much for the guests, though. Especially not the green.
The party was in full swing, people crowding the dance floor. The disc jockey, a six-foot-two-inch transsexual dressed like Wonder Woman, moved back and forth between two turntables, keeping the music going, loud and fast. Maroon 5’s “Wake Up Call” was playing when we walked in. S/he followed it with Shakira’s “Hips Don’t Lie” and Lady GaGa’s “Bad Romance.” By the time Enrique Iglesias’s “Bailamos” came on, I couldn’t stop myself. I took Peter’s hand and pulled him to one corner of the dance floor.
I grew up dancing. I’ve never met an Armenian who didn’t, man or woman, human or vampyre. My earliest memories are of the men in the village forming a circle, each holding on to one end of a white handkerchief, stomping and kicking and dipping as they snaked around a fire pit to the sound of the dumbek and the oud. Even my father came down out of the mountain when he heard the music. He wouldn’t dance with the others, but for hours on end he’d leave the valley unguarded while he twirled around by himself in the shadows. Then my mother would join him and they’d disappear back into the trees, satisfying urges the music gave rise to. Music affects me the same way, almost as much as the Thirst. The right music. Primal . . . minor . . . a driving beat. It sets up a longing in me, an aching, a need for release that only gets satisfied by movement. Or coupling. Someone’s hands on my body, down my breasts, between my legs. That’s what the right kind of music does to me.
“Bailamos” did that for me. I turned my back on Peter and moved my hips against him, keeping beat to the music with my ass against his groin. He kept the beat right back. I danced away so I could turn around and watch him. The man could move, even in a tuxedo. If it hadn’t been for Frank Sinatra, I might have ravaged him right on the dance floor. But Wonder Woman changed CDs, and Ol’ Blue Eyes started singing. I calmed down. Frank Sinatra doesn’t do it for me.
Peter likes him, though. He took me in his arms and we finished “Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered.”
“Mick Erzatz is definitely a were, Peter. I can smell him. And all that dialogue about me not aging. He knows exactly what I am,” I said as the DJ segued into Nickelback. We stood there embracing each other without moving.
“Look, Ovsanna, you still don’t know if he’s the one who’s trying to kill you. These fucking things are multiplying like rabbits. The rougarou, the boxenwolves, the woman we torched. They’re all over the place. You don’t know for sure he’s the one. Just enjoy the party and we’ll see what else we can find out. ”
I could feel Mick watching us. He was by the bar, talking to a short brunette with huge breasts and a huge ass. I blocked out the music so I could eavesdrop.
“I’m telling you, Kimmie, you gotta release another tape. Your STARmeter’s dropping. You can only get so much mileage outta the breakup with the boyfriend. Believe me, I got plenty of clients who’ll be willing to bang your brains out on camera. Then we fake the tape getting stolen and file a lawsuit and you’ll be right back on ‘Page Six,’ and your show’s guaranteed another season. You just let me handle the details.”
I stopped listening.
The invitation had said black tie. Most of the men were in tuxedos, except our host, who was wearing a brown kimono over
silk pajama pants. All the waitstaff were dressed as circus performers. That’s what some of them must have been, because a fellow in a harlequin outfit came tumbling across the floor to present me with a rose. A green rose, under the lights. He took our drink order. Five minutes later, a clown on a unicycle delivered Peter his Guinness.
There was a seminude woman covered in silver body paint and black feathers, sitting at a harp to the left of the bar. She played when the disc jockey took a break. The waiters, passing trays of hors d’oeuvres, and the chefs, standing at the food stations serving designer pastas, lobster salad, and individual filet mignons, were dressed in red-and-yellow unitards. They looked ready to tightrope walk at a moment’s notice.
I left Peter waiting at one of the food stations and walked from the banquet hall into a long, low-ceilinged corridor that had rooms opening off both sides. A woman stepped out of the first one, leaving the door ajar. She was dressed like the Philip Morris bellhop from the Hotel New Yorker, and she had a cigarette tray in her hands. Inside the room, I saw two men and a woman on a bed. One of the men was tying off his arm. He looked familiar, an actor who’d walked off that show Celebrity Rehab, claiming his faith in God was all he needed to get straight. He must have stopped praying. The other man was licking cocaine off the woman’s nipples. She raised her head to look at me and smiled.
“Would you like some enhancement for your festivities this evening?” It was the cigarette girl. She turned so I could examine her tray. There were cigarettes nestled in a black-lacquered bowl, next to a matching bowl of cocaine. A small mountain of cocaine. Three more bowls held what looked like ecstasy, oxy, and acid-laced sugar cubes.
Vampyres are immune to the effects of alcohol or drugs. But if we take blood tainted with either, we feel it. I fed on Rimbaud once when he was drunk on absinthe. We were celebrating his birthday in Abyssinia. Over a hundred years ago and I still remember how ghastly I felt. One of those times when I wished I could vomit.
Love Bites Page 24