Carrie Vaughn - Kitty's House of Horrors

“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 case.”

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.

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.