Kitty's House of Horrors (Kitty Norville 7)

“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.

chapter 11

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.

“Bodies,” I whispered. This didn’t smell like meat, like the deer Jerome had dropped in front of the house the other day. This smelled like bodies. “It’s coming from the plane.”

I ran forward, Grant on my heels. The smell grew stronger. I reached the cabin door and rattled the handle, struggling with it a moment before finally wrenching it open.

The three production assistants lay on the floor of the cabin, dead. Side by side, curled up and crammed in, Gordon first, then Skip, then Amy. Purple bruises ringed their necks, as if they’d been garroted. I gripped the door, my heart racing, my breaths stumbling. I wanted to run, and my wolfish instincts howled.

Provost, Valenti, and Cabe were still missing.

“What’s it mean?” I said, catching my breath, struggling to stay calm.