Kitty's House of Horrors (21 page)

The others watched us: Gemma with her hand over her face, like she couldn’t believe it; Tina looking away, holding Jeffrey’s
arm. Jeffrey facing us, but with his eyes closed. Lee, staring out the window, hands clenched by his sides.

“Get away from the window,” Anastasia said, moving up to him, displacing him from the spot that gave whoever shot Ariel a
perfect view. Lee curled his lips, a silent snarl. I wondered if he felt the same way I did. Or worse—his escape routes required
open ocean. He had to be going crazy.

“Kitty, Lee,” Anastasia said, urgent, with a commander’s voice and not the urbane vampire voice I’d always heard from her.
“I need your help. Leave out the back. I’ll draw him out. Be ready.”

“What?” Lee said. “What do you—”

But I knew. This plan was familiar, and I knew it without even hearing it. Lee didn’t recognize it because he didn’t hunt
with a pack.

“Be ready,” she said.

I took Lee’s shoulder and guided him to the kitchen as Anastasia left through the front door. I pulled Lee out the back door
in the kitchen.

“What does she expect us to do?” he said harshly, the anger of helplessness showing through.

“We have the best noses,” I whispered. I waited for the sound of a gunshot, for the sign that the sniper was still there and
waiting for the next target—the bullet wouldn’t have done anything to Anastasia. She’d walk right through it, but maybe the
shooter didn’t know that.

Who was I kidding? The arrow that killed Jerome was silver-tipped. The shooter knew what he was doing and wouldn’t waste a
bullet on the vampire. No, his bullets were most likely silver, and he’d save them for me and Lee. I wondered if Lee had figured
that out.

I wasn’t a vampire. My senses were not so fine that I could follow the path of a bullet, but I could tell when something didn’t
fit, when something was wrong. I could smell the gunpowder and sense that we’d been invaded. Anastasia was moving toward that
wrongness; she needed our help.

“You flank left,” I said. “I’ll move ahead and flank right.”

He must have figured it all out, because he nodded. We ran, jogging behind the lodge and toward the trees, arcing in opposite
directions, keeping low and quiet. At every moment, I expected to hear a bullet whine toward me. Or a mine to explode under
my feet. As a werewolf, I was tough and healed fast, but I didn’t know what an explosion would do to me. It didn’t matter,
I understood what Anastasia was asking: she would flush the quarry, and then we would strike.

This was when Wolf could be an asset. I used her senses to range much farther ahead and around me than I could see. I moved
quietly and knew where all the shadows were to hide in. Quickly, I reached the trees, entering the woods, gaining as much
ground as I could to be in position. A prickling in my neck made me pause and look back toward the lodge. I spotted the vampire.
To Wolf’s eyes, night wasn’t dark. It was filled with nuance, shadow, moments of light, spots of movement. Anastasia wasn’t
moving, but she was incongruous, a poised figure in her tailored black clothes. Her face was pale, brilliant, like ivory.
Her gaze focused on a spot. Something had been hidden before, but now she studied it, her chin tilted up slightly. Her figure
was entrancing, beautiful; I could have just watched her. Instead, I looked to where she did, tried to find what had caught
her attention. My nose flared, trying to detect it by scent. Finally, I saw it, well masked in the shadows: a man perched
fifteen feet off the ground, on a branch of a pine with a view of the front porch a hundred yards away, where the picture
window shone with light from the candles inside. Ariel had been backlit, a perfect shadow, a perfect target.

I couldn’t scent him because he smelled richly of pine, maybe sap from rubbing against the branches as he’d been sitting there.
The extra-straight branch near him was his rifle, which smelled of burned gunpowder.

He saw Anastasia. He was quickly loading something into the rifle—and what kind of special bullet would you use on a vampire?
Could you make a bullet with holy water or garlic in it? No doubt someone had tried somewhere along the way. What was Anastasia
doing? Just waiting there for him to load and fire?

But she was gone, suddenly as mist, moving almost too quickly to see. Then she was climbing the tree—even though the lowest
branches were a dozen feet up. Somehow, she must have found fingerholds in the bark. Or her hands were made of glue. Didn’t
matter. She would need help; this was the time. I loped around, putting myself on the far side of the tree. I caught a whiff
of sea and salt—Lee. He crouched between the tree and the path. All escape routes covered.

The guy was moving but not panicking at Anastasia’s rapid approach. He finished loading the gun, then stood, bracing himself
against the trunk so he could look down on her, sighting along the barrel. Anastasia shifted, rotating along the trunk—I had
no idea how. The sniper followed but had trouble; the branch he stood on got in the way.

I had to distract him. Anastasia had flushed him—time to overwhelm. Dropping to my knees, I grabbed a pinecone and threw.
I didn’t have great aim, but this just had to make noise. Get him to look somewhere else. But I did better than I thought—the
pinecone struck the tree above his head, rained a few needles on him, made him look up, then out to where the projectile had
come from. At me, in other words.

And Anastasia was standing on the branch in front of him, perfectly balanced on her high heels, hands on her hips, staring
him down. She might have said, “Boo.”

He fell—and his safety harness and line secured to the branch caught him. He’d probably used it to haul himself into the tree
in the first place. Recovering quickly, he righted himself, planted his feet on the trunk, and used the rappeling gear to
lower himself the rest of the way down. Man, this guy was
good.

He unclipped from the line, started running—and this was my game, now. He was human, and whatever else I smelled, whatever
confusion my senses were going through, I didn’t doubt that he was a regular human with no other superpowers than what his
fancy equipment gave him. Flat out, I could run faster than him.

I didn’t run straight at him but parallel to him, flanking him. He spotted me—that was the idea. As I’d hoped, he veered away
from me—toward Lee. He still held the rifle, which was worrying. But he didn’t aim and fire, which made me think that whatever
ammunition he’d switched into it wouldn’t kill werewolves. A small bit of luck.

Then he switched the rifle to his left hand and drew a handgun from a belt holster. Shit.

Two instinctive reactions vied against each other: I could dodge, drop, hide out, and let him get away—some prey wasn’t worth
the effort; or I could charge him and maybe surprise him out of any meaningful action. In either case, I had to hope he didn’t
get a good shot off. The decision happened in half a second. This was the guy who killed Ariel, Jerome, and Dorian. I couldn’t
let him get away.

I charged.

Ignoring the repetitive chorus of
Holy crap, I’m gonna die
playing in my head, I ducked and wove, hoping to mess up his aim. I wasn’t much watching, thinking only of tackling him before
he could fire the gun. Like maybe he’d be so surprised he’d just stand there. He didn’t. He kept running, too, gun in hand,
raising his arm to shoot. But I ran faster.

Lee tackled him from behind.

Lee wasn’t a runner, not like me. I had wolf in my blood, and he had seal. But seals
are
master ambushers. He’d been waiting for the chance, and I slowed down the sniper enough to give him his opening. He knocked
the sniper to the ground and held him there. They writhed, the gunman struggling to escape and Lee struggling to stay on top
of him, digging his elbow into the man’s back, pinning him with his legs. Lee’s teeth were bared, and they may have been a
little more pointy than normal.

I grabbed the rifle, threw it, and kicked the handgun away. The guy wasn’t even screaming. Up close, I saw details: he wore
black commando gear, close-fitting fatigues, utility belt, leather gloves, combat boots, even a full-face stocking cap, and
black paint shaded the skin around his eyes. Hard-core.

“Let him up,” Anastasia commanded. She stood before us, at the sniper’s head, in perfect position to stomp one of her heels
through his skull. Not a hair or fold of clothing ruffled, she didn’t look like she’d been climbing trees.

Lee growled, a gruff noise between a bark and a sigh, and the vampire said, “Let go. I’ll handle this.”

Lee leaned away from the sniper, who jumped to his feet as soon as the pressure was off him. The guy was patting down pockets
like he was searching for something he’d misplaced—the first sign of panic he’d shown. Maybe he had stakes or crosses stashed
somewhere.

Anastasia didn’t give him time. She grabbed his neck with a hand, fingers bent like claws, stepped around him like they were
part of some strange tango. He clutched her arm and screamed, a noise of gruff, primal fear. From behind now, she wrapped
her arm around his face and snapped. It all happened in a second. He crumpled in her arms.

I looked away. Lee was panting, crouched on the ground, head bent. His skin had taken on a sickly, grayish tone. Blood draining
in fear—or near to shifting?

“Lee?” I murmured.

“I’m okay,” he said, his voice rough. He pulled himself back from the edge. His breathing slowed, and his skin returned to
its brown human tone.

Anastasia wasn’t breathing at all. She knelt, the sniper still in her arms, holding his body close, his head cradled on her
shoulder. I took a deep breath, collecting scents, gathering information. The sniper—he was still warm. He hadn’t started
cooling in death—because his heart was still beating. Anastasia had broken his neck without killing him. She’d known exactly
what she was doing.

If I’d had the chance, I probably would have just beaten the guy’s head in or ripped his throat out, depending on how far
I was gone. Anastasia’s calculating action left a chill in my gut. I didn’t want to have to look in his eyes and see the knowledge
of his impending death. I was a coward. I just wanted a normal life, and this was more proof that I wasn’t cut out for a life
so red in tooth and claw.

She was murmuring to him, in mocking seductive tones. “Hush there, darling. You played the game and lost. That’s all. You’ll
be able to sleep soon enough, so relax.”

The sniper’s body was limp, still. But his eyes were wide, shining, unblinking. Terrified. I gagged on the lump in my throat.

Gently, careful to keep his head and neck still, to keep him alive for the next few moments at least, she peeled off the knit
mask, sliding it up his face, then letting it fall off the top of his head.

“Oh my God,” I said, stepping back, hand over my mouth.

It was Ron Valenti. One of the producers of this horror show.

H
e’d covered his clothing with pine sap to mask his scent. Until we were nearly under him, he didn’t even smell like a person,
much less one we knew. If I’d caught his scent moving back and forth earlier, it was because he’d been here all week.

Anastasia took the news without a reaction. She stroked his hair, crooning at him like he was a babe in arms.

Lee snarled, which almost sounded like the hiss and bark of an attacking seal. He started toward the prone figure, but Anastasia
turned a sharp, commanding glance to him, and I dared to put a hand on his shoulder. His muscles were hard, like wood.

“So nice to see you again, Mr. Valenti,” Anastasia murmured. “But I must say, Armani suits you better than this look.” Her
voice was honey and razors at the same time. A hundred clichés about vampires had their origin in a scene like this.

Valenti groaned, his pain and despair clear.

Anastasia shushed him again, low and purring. “I assume your friend Provost is part of this. Who else? Our dear Mr. Cabe?
Was the entire company involved? Did you bring in other hunters? Sell tickets for the chance to bag the prize of a lifetime?”

Valenti’s voice came out a whisper. I could barely hear it. He was struggling to breathe. “No… no… no one… else. No…” Tears
leaked from his eyes.

“How many more are out here, Mr. Valenti? How many more are waiting to kill us?”

He tried to swallow. Failed, and a line of saliva spilled out of his mouth. He was dying. I could hear his heart fluttering
with effort.

Every breath was a failed gasp. “Two… two…” He answered, because no one denied Anastasia.

“Do they have help from the inside? One of the residents? Odysseus Grant, perhaps?”

“Now wait a minute,” I said, and the vampire threw me that look. I clenched my jaw.

Valenti actually chuckled, or tried to, but he wheezed, then choked, probably on spit pulled into his lungs. He coughed, which
made the choking worse. Now he wasn’t breathing at all. Terror pulled his whole face taut; his eyes gleamed.

“Shh, shh there.” Anastasia touched his cheek, murmured comforts, but she couldn’t stop the inevitable. She shifted his body,
bent over his neck. Valenti was whining now, a high note of desperation. He had to know what was coming. He probably hadn’t
seen himself going this way.

Fangs bared, Anastasia bit into him.

I closed my eyes. Lee made a noise of denial and turned away. The light of the moon shone. Long, straight shadows of pine
trees fell over us. The lodge, dark except for the candles and flashlights in the front room, hunched like the cottage in
a fairy tale. And somewhere out there, two more just like Valenti were waiting to strike.

Valenti had stopped crying. Anastasia’s quiet swallowing was the only sound. When vampires feed solely for sustenance, they
don’t need to kill their victims. A few swallows of blood sustain them, and the victim is none the worse for wear. Anastasia
drained Valenti. It took a lot longer than drinking a few swallows.

When she dropped the body, I turned to look.
Now
he was dead, cooling quickly. His skin was white, ghostly. He wasn’t just dead, but a husk. On the other hand, Anastasia
glowed, flush and strong. She straightened, and behind closed lips her tongue ran over her teeth.