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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.
Chapter 4
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.
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 wi
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 wi
“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?