Carrie Vaughn: Kitty's House of Horrors

“Of course,” he said.

“And Lee Harvey Oswald was acting alone when he shot Kennedy?”

“Probably, yes.”

“Good, you’re not a complete conspiracy nut.” Just a partial one. “Hey, I have it on good authority from a vampire in Las Vegas that Oswald used silver bullets. What do you say to that?”

Various skeptical responses followed that announcement. I just grinned. I still hadn’t done the research—like did Kennedy use the White House silver when he was in office?—to back that one up. I wasn’t sure I believed the vampire who told me this. But I still wondered.

Lee said, “You’re even more of a loudmouth in person than you are on your show. I thought it was all an act.”

“I became a DJ because I’m a loudmouth, not the other way around,” I said.

An artificial noise intruded—the drone of an airplane descending into the valley. Provost stood and looked out the living room’s big picture window that gave a view over the porch and into the valley.

“Ah, that’s the last shuttle in, I think,” he said. He actually rubbed his hands with glee.

Moments later, the front door opened. The man who stepped through it was quite possibly the last person I expected to see here. Oh, the list of people I’d never expect to take part in a show like this was long, and he might not have been quite the last. But he was close.

“Grant!” I said, setting down my wineglass and standing to meet him. My smile grew wide.

Odysseus Grant was a stage magician who fronted an old-fashioned Vaudevillian-style magic show in Las Vegas, complete with rabbits pulled from top hats. The act was more than a stage show: Grant really was a magician, or a sorcerer, or something. A master of arcane knowledge on a crusade against chaos, a real-life Doctor Strange, except even more ominous. He had a box of vanishing that opened into… somewhere else. A weird pocket dimension was my theory. He’d said he was going to retire the doorway—I hoped that meant that whatever was inside wasn’t going to be getting out anytime soon.

Frankly, I couldn’t begin to understand much of what Odysseus Grant really did. But I was still happy to see him.

“Kitty,” he said, as warmly as he ever said anything. His smile was thin, but it was there. He was tall, slender, sharp, with pale hair and stony blue eyes. He wore a white button-up shirt and black slacks and held a suit jacket over his arm.

I didn’t rush to hug him like I had with my other friends. Grant wasn’t a very huggable guy.

“What are you doing here?” I said. “How the hell did they talk you into doing this dog-and-pony show?”

“I’ve been considering taking my show on the road for some time now. This seemed like a way to start,” he said. “I’m not at all surprised to see you here.”

I shrugged. I’d reconciled myself to the fact that in some respects, I was very predictable.

“Mr. Grant, welcome.” Provost leapt up to shake hands, acting almost deferential toward the magician. Grant had that effect on people.

Provost made introductions again, and Grant greeted everyone neutrally, sizing them up, looking each person in the eye, studying them. Calculating. If I didn’t know the guy, and if he hadn’t saved my life once, he’d have made me really nervous. In fact, Tina and Jeffrey both seemed wary of him, not greeting him quite as warmly as they could have, keeping a good space between them. I wondered what they saw when they looked at him, what they suspected. If I had to guess what Jeffrey saw in the magician’s aura, I’d say “power.”

“I suppose you’re here because you think you’re a real magician,” Conrad said.

Grant raised a brow. “I am a real magician.” He reached to Conrad’s head. Conrad flinched, as if he thought Grant was going to hit him. But Grant only revealed a coin that might have been pulled from behind Conrad’s ear.

He handed it to Conrad, who flushed. “Ha, ha,” the skeptic said.

“Grant, can I get you a drink?” Macy had moved to the liquor cabinet during the commotion.

“Water is fine,” Grant said, which was him all over.

After we’d settled again, and I admired how cozy this all was, gathered on cushy sofas around the rustic fireplace in front of a window with a killer view, Jeffrey said, “Is this everyone?”

“Uh, no,” Provost said, and he seemed nervous, shifting his position and clasping his hands. “We have a couple more. They should be getting here any minute.”

He glanced outside the huge picture window. Night had fallen; it was full dark. I couldn’t hear the sound of an approaching airplane—though a pilot would have to be crazy to try to navigate these mountains at night—so no arrival seemed particularly imminent. But Provost wasn’t looking at the clearing in front of the lodge, visible in the porch light. He was looking at the dark sky.

I glanced around the room and noted which prominent variety of supernatural creature was not currently represented here. Then a door in the back of the house opened and closed.

“Ah,” Provost said. “That must be them.”

The vampires arrived.

At first glance, the two women seemed pressed straight out of the Eurotrash vampire mold. One had black hair, one had chestnut, both in elaborate buns with apparently no device actually holding them up. They wore blazing red lipstick on pouty lips and had sultry eyes. The chestnut-haired one wore a tight black dress with a low neckline and high hemline. Frighteningly high heels. On anyone else the outfit would have been near-formal cocktail attire, but on her it looked like everyday loungewear, like she’d walk her dog in it. She was beautiful—airbrushed beautiful, with large dark eyes and classic features. You couldn’t help but watch her. The other was slightly shorter—though both of them wore high heels that made judging their actual height impossible—with Asian features, dark eyes, and pale ivory skin. She wore flowing black slacks and a cinched-up bustier, embroidered black on black, and a diamond brooch on a choker.

I had no way of judging their actual ages, but for some reason the shorter one struck me as being older. The way she stood just a little in front of her companion gave off a protective, big-sister vibe. They both stood, hands on cocked hips, like they owned the place.

They were so striking, I almost didn’t notice the man standing behind them. He smelled human—his heart beat and his warm blood was his own. He was young, muscular under his gray slacks and black T-shirt. Square of jaw and thick of hair. I wanted to look for the label on him that said “Male Model.”

He smelled human, but he also smelled a little like the women, who in turn smelled a little like him. They all had an air of coolness, and of fresh blood. Then I figured it out: he was their donor. Their human servant, some vampires called it. I imagined they got a little more than blood out of him. They made quite the trio.

I looked at Provost. “You went out and found the most vampirey vampires you possibly could, didn’t you?”

“Vampires,” Conrad said flatly. Like he didn’t think the show would have the gall to try to convince him that vampires really existed.

Provost hurried to put himself between the vampires and the rest of us. Come on, I wanted to complain. If he thought this was going to cause an epic battle, he should have given us some warning.

I knew better than to go up against vampires. Physically, anyway.

“This is Anastasia and Gemma,” Provost introduced the women.

“And this is Dorian,” said the shorter, black-haired Anastasia, gesturing to their cabana boy. “So nice to meet you all.”

She had a confident voice and an American accent, which made it hard to place her actual age and point of origin. Her attitude seemed old, experienced.