Kitty's House of Horrors

  I walked away, and he threw curses at my back, eventually breaking down into sobs, and the sobs faded into a hysterical prayer, “Kill me, please God, kill me, kill me…”

  Arms crossed, shoulders hunched, I paced along the wall like a caged animal. Part of me was all ready to oblige him. Bullet in his head, my hands around his throat, that’d be the end of it. Shouldn’t be too hard—I was a monster, after all.

  After his frenzied outburst, he passed out in short order.

  We had to get out of here. I could do it, I could run—with only one of them out there now, it should be easier. Cabe couldn’t watch both doors. I’d go, I’d get help. All Cabe had to do was burn the house down and he’d win. Couldn’t let that happen. Had to run, soon—

  “Kitty.”

  I stopped and looked, startled, wanting to growl at the interruption.

  His face a mask, Grant regarded me. He and Tina had moved to the living room to watch my exchange with Provost. She sat on the sofa next to Conrad, head bowed, hands over her ears, like she was trying to shut out the world. Conrad switched between staring at Provost, Grant, and me. Like he didn’t know whom to be more frightened of.

  “Kitty,” Grant said. “We need you to stay human. Please.”

  I couldn’t guess what the others saw in me. A monster, probably, just like Provost saw in me. They were all human. Us and them.

  Hands over my face, I slumped against the wall and slid to the floor. Keep it together. Just a little while longer, keep it together. We’d get out of this. We could use Provost to get out of this. We could stop Cabe. We were almost there.

  I scrubbed my face, which was wet. The tears just started, quietly leaking. I tried to smile. Tried to make it an apology. But Provost’s smell, the evidence of what I’d done, filled the room, oppressive.

  “I always said I’d never do this. I’d never infect someone else with this. I never wanted to be responsible for someone like that.” I wiped my nose on my sleeve, turned away.

  Grant said, “It’ll be dark soon. We’ll wait for Anastasia.”

  That was as good a plan as any for the moment.

  Tina and Conrad slept fitfully. Grant and I kept watch, sneaking looks out the front window, checking the fronts and the backs of the house, looking for any changes. Waiting for tear gas canisters to come flying through the windows. The situation remained quiet. Provost remained unconscious. Twilight fell, and we lit the candles and found the flashlights.

  I listened for footsteps on the basement stairs, for the sound of the door opening. Didn’t hear them. She moved quietly and didn’t allow any sound to escape, so that she seemed to just appear at the edge of the living room, dressed elegantly as always, flowing black slacks and a silk top, her hair knotted and pinned at the back of her head. It was as if nothing had happened, she stood so calmly.

  What she saw in the living room must have seemed like a war zone. Jeffrey’s body under a blanket. Provost feverish and sweating, drifting in and out. The rest of us huddled in on ourselves, wearing the haunted gazes of refugees.

  After a long moment she said, “You’ve been busy.”

  I stifled a laugh.

  “What’s the situation?” she said.

  Grant answered: “Cabe is still out there, watching the house. He’s probably trapped one of the doors and is keeping an eye on the other.”

  “Have you thought about using this one as a bargaining chip?” She nodded at Provost.

  “We were waiting for you,” Grant said.

  “Ah. I can tell you what I’d prefer to do with him. I need to keep up my strength, after all.”

  “What happened to using him as a bargaining chip?” Tina said.

  “We’ll still have him for that,” she said, her voice too sweet. Sugarcoated poison.

  None of us stopped her from kneeling beside Provost, raising his wrist to her mouth, and drinking. The injured man groaned, started to thrash, but she rested a hand on his forehead. He continued to moan in delirium, but his body calmed. After a few moments, she let him go.

  “I’ve drunk from two of them,” she said, licking her lips dramatically. “I’d love to taste the third.”

  Tina made a sound and looked away, while Conrad huddled even farther back on the sofa.

  Anastasia stood and smoothed her clothing. “I’m sorry I missed the events that led to this. Kitty, you must have been spectacular. I confess, I wouldn’t have expected it from you. Did you intend to turn him?”

  “I intended to kill him,” I said.

  “Ah.” A frown turned her mouth. “He won’t make it. His kind rarely do. Give him access to a gun and he’ll kill himself.”

  “Save me from having to do it,” I muttered, and everyone looked at me. I glared back, daring them to argue with me. I wasn’t much interested in being nice and moral anymore. We all had our breaking points.

  Anastasia went to the window and studied the falling night outside. “This is a war of attrition. Messy. But if the numbers hold, we’re winning.”

  “Small comfort,” I said.

  “Kitty, please stop feeling sorry for yourself. I haven’t survived for eight hundred years to give up now.”

  “I’m not feeling sorry for myself. I’m just tired. And that’s an understatement.” I was even too tired to pounce on that scrap of information. Eight hundred years. I didn’t care. Scratching my hair, I got up and tried to get my brain working. “I could try running for help again. Cabe can’t watch all of us. If we can set up some kind of distraction—”

  The explosion of a shot fired, and the picture window in the living room shattered. Candles flickered, Tina screamed, all of us ducked—except for Anastasia, who leaned over to peer through the now-empty space.

  “Well,” she said. “The move’s been made. The endgame begins.”

  chapter 22

  We still had the handgun, but not much else in the way of weapons. Maybe he’d stand still long enough for us to throw tear gas at him. Nothing else would work at range, which left us with trying to lure him out. Because that had worked so well the last time. With a breeze coming in from outside now, I could smell danger, more guns, gunpowder. Cabe, the only unfamiliar scent on the air.

  “He’s right outside,” I said. “He’s moving in.”

  Something arced through the open window and cracked on the floor. A rock or something. Something metallic. Tina spotted it first, lunged for it, grabbed it—a grenade. She threw herself on that grenade, literally. I yelled at her—I couldn’t lose anyone else—

  She cocked back and threw it back through the window. It exploded on the dirt clearing outside, a sound of thunder and a roiling orange fireball, debris scattering in all directions. Rock and gravel struck the house like bullets. We all ducked away from the destruction.

  Another shot rang out—Cabe taking advantage of the confusion. Tina was standing right in front of the window, only seconds after she’d gotten rid of the grenade. As if Cabe had expected something like this, like the grenade had been just a distraction. The shot hit her torso. She fell. I screamed.

  Grant was at her side before I could think to move. “She’s alive!” he called. Tina herself backed up his statement a moment later.

  “Shit!” she groaned.

  At that moment, I could have been easily persuaded to believe in the power of prayer. Please, God and whatever other powers are watching, get us through this.

  “I need a distraction out front,” I said. I found the handgun on the kitchen counter. It had only four shots left; it would have to be enough.

  Anastasia pulled Provost off the floor. “Get up, you. Time to be useful.” She slapped his face a couple of times, and he slowly came out of his daze. When he saw the vampire holding him up by his arm, her nails digging into his skin, he panicked. Jerking away from her, he thrashed, pounded with his fists, screamed. Anastasia’s grip never weakened.

  She grabbed his chin and forced him to look at her. “I could finish you without even thinking of it. Just like I
finished your friend Valenti. I guarantee you it won’t be an easy death.” She caught him in her gaze, and he calmed, hanging limply in her hands. His face went taut, despairing, but he stopped fighting her. He was trapped, hypnotized.

  Part of me wanted to leap to his defense, and the feeling horrified me. That was my Wolf, sensing another, weaker wolf in danger—our wolf. There was an instinct to protect him. But this man was evil. I wouldn’t claim him. Couldn’t. Not this one, I told my whining Wolf and turned away.

  Anastasia hauled Provost through the front door, shoving him in front of her as a shield.

  Grant and I looked at each other. This was it.

  “Go,” he said. “I’ll keep an eye on the front.”

  I didn’t go out through the back door, in case it was trapped. But there was a window on the side of the house. I opened it and popped out the screen. Moved very, very carefully. Listening hard, smelling all around the edges for gunpowder, wooden stakes, silver arrows, anything that might be a weapon. The ground under the window looked fine. Here goes, then.

  Quietly, I lowered myself out the window to the ground. When I didn’t blow up, I ran to the corner and edged along the porch until I could see Cabe.

  He could have given Rambo a run for his money. He was down to a T-shirt, black pants, and combat boots, but he was outfitted for war: rifle in his hand, gun in a shoulder holster, crossbow slung over his shoulder, a pouch on one hip holding arrows, a pouch on the other hip holding a bundle of gardening stakes. Several more grenades on a bandolier.

  He could have blown us all up, but he wanted to do this face-to-face. He wanted to go down to the wire. I could see it in his eyes. Fucking maniac.

  Anastasia was speaking. “We killed Valenti; this one here’s as good as dead. You can’t win, Mr. Cabe.”

  Cabe fired the rifle. I flinched, simultaneously trying to see what had happened. Bullets couldn’t hurt Anastasia, I wasn’t worried about her, so what had he shot?

  Provost slid out of Anastasia’s arms and fell dead. I choked on a shout.

  Cabe dropped the rifle and threw something at the vampire, a fast and haphazard pitch. Water splashed from a bottle, like the small bottle of liquid that Valenti had carried. Anastasia was lunging at Cabe when the spray hit her, and she lost her composure. She put up her hands in defense, cringed, slouched away, and didn’t make a sound as the holy water burned like acid on her face and hands.

  Next, Cabe swung up his crossbow—already loaded, ready to fire a wood bolt through Anastasia’s heart, now that she was vulnerable.

  I leveled my gun; I had him in my sights, squeezed the trigger.

  Blood sprayed from Cabe’s thigh. He cried out, staggered, dropped to his knees. The crossbow tumbled from his grip. But he was still alive and going for the stakes at his hip.

  Okay, so I really needed to practice with this gun thing some more. Mental note.

  Only partially recovered, Anastasia struck at him, more slowly than she should have moved, not at all like her elegant, brutal self, and he stopped her midstride, holding a stake up, gripped with both hands, ready to impale her. She stopped, teeth bared. The tableau paused; then Cabe climbed to his feet. His thigh was a bloody mess. He didn’t seem to notice.

  “You!” Cabe shouted, glancing at me. “You fire again and I’ll kill her! I can do it!”

  Did the man have no pain receptors? Maybe he didn’t. I emerged from my shelter behind the porch. Lowered the gun, just a little.

  “Not good enough!” he said. “Put it down! Drop it!”

  Quick mental calculation: if I dropped it, how quickly could I pick it back up again? Could he really stake her before I shot him? Could he stake her before she reacted? The wooden point was a foot from her chest. Anything could happen. Grant stood on the porch, probably making the same calculations I was.

  Frozen, I couldn’t make a decision. But my hand opened and I let the gun go.

  Cabe jumped toward Anastasia, stake raised, shouting in rage. She braced, preparing a defense, teeth bared, hissing. I dove for the gun, running forward in the same motion.

  Grant leapt forward—putting himself in front of Anastasia, protecting her—and grappled with Cabe. It happened too fast; I didn’t see what led to Odysseus Grant falling, holding his bandaged hands to his chest. But I could guess: he’d put himself in front of the stake meant for the vampire. He clutched the length of it sticking from his rib cage. Cabe stood over him, stunned, staring, panting like a wild beast.

  I steadied myself, aimed the way I’d been taught, and fired the last of the gun’s shots. Cabe jerked, fell back, and didn’t move again.

  The world fell silent, still, my hearing masked with cotton by the sound of those gunshots. I’d killed again—too late, this time.

  Anastasia crouched by Grant’s head, held his shoulders, and stared at the stake in his chest with a shocked gaze. Red rashes from the holy water streaked her beautiful face, which was creased with either pain or grief. She hadn’t even looked so distraught when we lost Gemma. Numb, I dropped to my knees beside them, gripped Grant’s wrists, which were braced around the protruding stake, and searched him for life and movement. His eyes were open, looking back at me, and his lips smiled faintly. A time like this, and he smiled.

  Tell me what to do, I pleaded silently, meeting his gaze. I had gone feral, Wolf in my eyes, in my senses, unable to form words.

  “Kitty,” he murmured, coughed, and I squeezed tighter, urging him to lie back, not to struggle. But he never listened to me. “It’s a trance—tell them.”

  He coughed, and blood bubbled at the corner of his mouth. Air bubbled in the blood around the wound at his chest.

  “Odysseus,” Anastasia breathed.

  “Slows heart rate. Blood pressure.” Another cough, with more red foam sliding down his chin. “Not dead. Tell them.”

  He met my gaze, nodded once, then closed his eyes. Laid his head back, almost in Anastasia’s lap. His breathing slowed, then slowed again. My hands were on his wrists, I felt his pulse, I heard his heart—it also slowed. Dimmed.

  “No,” I murmured, my voice finally unsticking. “No, Grant, no, no—”

  Anastasia squeezed my shoulder, and I looked at her with round eyes, wolfish. My throat was tight, preparing to howl.

  “Kitty,” she said, her voice low. “He knows what he’s doing. A trance, so he won’t bleed out. He’s saving himself.”

  If anyone could do such a thing, it would be Grant. I shook my head. “It won’t do any good—we’re still stuck here. He needs an ambulance now, Tina needs an ambulance—”

  Anastasia went to Cabe’s body and started searching it. “One of them has to have a satellite phone—they had to have a way of calling out.”

  I couldn’t do anything else for Grant; I couldn’t find a pulse and assumed he was unconscious. He didn’t smell dead. So I went inside to check on Tina.

  She’d managed to pull herself to the door. Curled up, hugging her middle, she looked out. Blood covered her hands. Her eyes were bright and, unbelievably, she was smiling.

  “Tina.” Kneeling by her, I took hold of her shoulder.

  “It’s okay. Kitty, it’s going to be okay,” she said, gasping. “Listen.”

  “What? What is it? Tina—”

  She gripped my arm with bloody hands. “Listen!”

  I held my breath and listened. At first, I thought it was thunder, a distant rumble. But it didn’t fade. It was regular, steady, and getting louder.

  The thump of a helicopter motor filled the valley. A helicopter. Oh my God.

  I ran off the porch, calling, “Anastasia!”

  “I hear it,” she said, standing and looking toward the meadow and airstrip.

  Still running, I headed down the path and looked up. A searchlight panned over me from above. I waved my arms, jumped up and down, shouted. The aircraft could have belonged to Provost and friends, it could have opened fire on me, and I was too tired to care.

  But the helicopter was red, with th
e words “Search and Rescue” painted on the side.

  chapter 23

  In moments, the yard in front of the lodge turned to chaos. A pair of EMTs arrived with their kits and got to work. I tried to explain, but the words came out jumbled. I wasn’t making any sense, but really, the scene before us was clear. Plenty of blood, plenty of bodies for them to work on.

  “Jesus,” one of the EMTs said, crouching by the inert magician. “Did somebody think he was a vampire or what?”

  “I can’t find a pulse,” his partner said.

  “He’s not dead. He’s in a trance,” Anastasia said. The guy looked at her blankly for a moment, opened his mouth like he might argue, but she must have put the whammy on him, because after a moment he nodded, and they got to work on Grant. Bandages, neck brace, more bandages.

  Another pair of EMTs huddled over Cabe and Provost, but without the urgency they’d shown with Grant. Anastasia and I watched it all like it was some kind of movie.

  “Inside,” I called to them, struggling for coherency. “There’s two people injured inside. Please.” They nodded and ran into the lodge. Tina, I hoped she was okay, I hoped she’d be okay—

  Another man approached. He wore a jumpsuit and a jacket, headphones over his ears. He seemed to be talking into a headset—the pilot, maybe?

  “Are you two all right?” he asked.

  We were covered in blood. I swallowed, still feeling like I was choking, or howling, or something. “I don’t know how to answer that.”

  He gave a wry smile. “Fair enough.”

  “How?” I said, my breaths coming in hiccups. “How did you get here? How did you know?”

  “The police got a call from a guy named Ben O’Farrell. Is one of you Kitty Norville?”

  Tears brimmed my eyes and spilled over. My knight in shining armor. Hell, yeah. “That’s me.”

  “He said he couldn’t get a call through and thought something fishy might be going on. We did some checking. Then a hiker from the Pine View Lodge up the trail reported finding a body that had been shot with arrows. We came out here assuming the worst.”