Carrie Vaughn: Kitty's House of Horrors

Nobody said anything. It occurred to me that I might have been the only one here who’d dealt with vampires on anything resembling a regular basis. They tended to be kind of standoffish. But heck, they were people. That was the whole point of my show, that we were all just people, right? So, apparently it was going to be up to me to get this party started.

“So. How did they drag you all into this little shindig?” I couldn’t think of a more polite way of asking how they were famous and why hadn’t I heard of them.

Anastasia—such a vampire name—gave a gracious tilt to her head, nodding at her companion. “We’re here because of Gemma.”

I said to Gemma, “And you’re here because…”

Gemma shifted, cocking a leg and a hip forward, tilting back her shoulders—vamping, for lack of a better word. No pun intended, surely. “I’m the very first Miss Fille de Sang Vampire Pageant winner.”

Everyone else goggled at that, except for Provost, who must have been pleased that the cameras were recording all this. But I was kind of pissed off.

“Wait a minute, I heard about this,” I said. “In New York, right? Some kind of hoopy vampire nightclub promotional thing. A publicity stunt. I mean, who ever heard of a vampire beauty pageant? The promoters wouldn’t talk to me. Nobody would talk to me. I wanted to interview the winner and they wouldn’t even give me a name.” I jabbed a finger at her. “That’s no way to get publicity.”

“Maybe they thought you weren’t the right kind of publicity,” Anastasia said. Her smile seemed amused.

“And this is?” I said, pointing at Valenti’s camera. Vampires didn’t always show up on film. They could play with light, which was why they didn’t always have reflections and why cameras didn’t always capture them. It was part of how they vanished, how they moved without being seen. They could also control it, when they wanted to. When they wanted the publicity, for example.

“This first pageant was a limited affair,” Anastasia said. “Testing the waters, if you will. Like Joey here, I’m interested in what opportunities might be open to us if we go public. However, unlike Joey—and you—I’m not convinced it’s safe for us, yet. You live your life in the open, Kitty. You put yourself and what you are out there—and you’ve faced severe consequences for it. There are still people out there who would be happy to see us all dead. Vampires, werewolves, psychics, everyone.” She glanced around at each person in turn.

“We’re not so far removed from the days of burning witches. I’ve heard the argument before.”

“Some of us remember.”

I wasn’t sure how to read Anastasia. I had the impression that dressing to stereotypical vampire standards was an act—it was expected, and if she was going to be public about her vampirism, she would play to those expectations. She probably had a good mind for business—most vampires who survived in wealth and luxury did. But what was the act hiding?

“We wanted to meet other people who are going public and being successful at it. At least, that’s why I’m here,” Gemma said. She and Anastasia smiled at each other. I was fairly certain Anastasia was her Mistress, the one who made her. I couldn’t read all the layers of connection between them.

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?”