Kitty's House of Horrors (6 page)

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.

I
was right about the meadow being perfect for elk. The next morning, a herd of them were grazing there. The sun was behind
the lodge, behind the hills to the east, but had risen high enough to wash the valley in golden light, which brought out all
the colors of the mountains, the grass, and the forest and sparkled off the lake. The elk, about five of them, were perfectly
peaceful, moving step by step, noses buried in grass. I sat at the picture window in the living room and watched, breathing
in the rich fumes of a cup of gourmet coffee graciously provided by SuperByte Entertainment and Skip the PA. The house was
quiet; I could hear birds chirping outside. If I went out on the porch, I’d bet I could smell the beautiful, clean mountain
air, the dew on the grass, and even the elk in the meadow. But I didn’t want to move and disturb anything. I might even have
been relaxed. I was almost startled by the feeling.

It couldn’t last. If I’d been here all by myself, settling in for a real vacation, the relaxation might have seeped into my
bones. But I was sharing the place with a dozen other people and the production staff. Inevitably, I heard footsteps on the
hardwood floor, entering the living room. I took a breath through my nose and sighed at the information.

Jerome Macy wasn’t the person I most wanted to see. Like their animal counterparts, werewolves are territorial. Competitive.
They have pack structures and hierarchies. I wasn’t sure how any of that was going to play out with Jerome and me. We hadn’t
had a chance to talk about it. I hoped we would talk about it instead of deciding we had to duke it out, however cinematic
that would be. However much Provost was
hoping
we’d duke it out. I was just waiting for the request to shape-shift on camera. I might have made a show of teasing Conrad
with the possibility, but I wasn’t really planning on doing it.

Macy moved up beside me and looked out the window to the meadow and elk. My back muscles stiffened, but I tried not to show
it. Tried to keep my shoulders from bunching up, like hackles rising. We were all friends here, right?

“Makes me want to go hunting,” Macy said, flexing his hands like he was stretching his claws.

So much for the peaceful morning.

“They’re all healthy adults,” I said. “Too much work.”

“Not if we hunted together.” He glanced at me.

Now, that—turning wolf and going on a hunt with a guy I barely knew—was a bad idea. Even if it would give Provost some great
footage.

I smiled wryly. “Why would I want to go through all that trouble when there’s a lovely staff here that wants nothing more
than to feed me, and I don’t have to lift a finger?”

His lips curled. “It’s not the same.”

No, it wasn’t. Wolf was salivating at the thought, but I didn’t have to tell Macy that. “Sorry. It’s just that things around
here are going to get weird enough without encouraging that side of it. I like to keep Wolf under wraps when I can.”