After the Kolchaks drove away, I poured myself yet another cup of coffee, watching the cream pinwheel with the rich brown java in my mug.
“You okay, hon?” Sean put a comforting hand on my shoulder.
I looked up at him. “Honestly, I don’t know how to answer that.”
He gave a rueful smile. “Guess I understand that. Just let me know if there’s anything I can do, okay?”
“Will do.” Standing, I gave him a quick kiss on his cheek, took my coffee, and wandered outside onto the porch, making my way around the side to sit in my rocking chair. There I stared up at the Santa Monica mountains… and the DuShane mansion.
I’d barely settled my butt into the cushion when my phone rang. Heaving an aggrieved sigh, I pulled it out of my jeans pocket.
Cayden.
Briefly thinking about letting it go to voicemail, I instead hit “answer” and took the call. It would take my mind off Jada’s disappearance.
“What’s up?”
“Enjoying the view of my house?”
I sat up straight in my chair. “How do you know where I am?”
I raised an eyebrow. “Now that’s not stalkery.”
“Hmmm… well, would it make you feel better if I promise only to use my powers for good, and not for evil?”
I laughed. “Do you really expect me to believe that?”
“The one thing you can trust is that I will not lie to you.” Oddly enough, I believed him.
“Asshat,” I said without malice. He gave a low chuckle. Did he know how sexy that was? I bet he did. I drank some more coffee.
“So what’s the job?” I asked.
“True Hollywood Horrors.”
I almost did a spit take. Oh, Universe, I thought. You and your whacky synchronicity.
“Would this by any chance be the segment on Ned DuShane?” I knew the answer even as I asked the question.
“Good guess.” He didn’t sound surprised. Which didn’t surprise me.
“And they want to film at the mansion,” I continued, “because they want to do a recreation of one of DuShane’s infamous parties.”
“On the nose. The production company also wants to film a few ‘what if’ scenarios, different theories that have surfaced over the years. Speculations about DuShane’s disappearance, for instance, and—”
“Wait, I thought he went all hermit in the late twenties, and then some relatives found his body a few years later.”
“Nope. That was just one of the many rumors that was spread. He actually vanished in the middle of what had evidently been quite the hedonistic orgy-fest. The studio didn’t like the optics.”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah. The police searched for him for weeks, in the mansion and on the surrounding grounds. Popular theory was that he’d done a runner because his more unsavory activities had come to light. Back in the day, the studio system did what they could to protect their money makers, but there were some things that couldn’t be swept under the rug.”
A breeze wafted across the porch, bringing the scents of eucalyptus, sage, and anise. I watched a jackrabbit hop across the dusty ground, unphased by the proximity of what looked like a bobcat—make that a bobcat and two bob-kittens—at the far western edge of the fence.
“What exactly do you want me to do?”
Oh, for a chance to rephrase that.
He chuckled but, surprisingly, let me off the hook. “I’m not going to be around for a chunk of the filming, so I need someone on hand to oversee the stunts and make sure they’re safe. We are, after all, talking about Crazy Casa.”
I blew out a huff of air that was part exhalation, part sigh. “Their stunt coordinator is concentrated ego and testosterone on two legs.”
“Right now,” he replied calmly, “one of those legs is badly broken.”
Oh, that’s right. With the current situation, I’d managed to forget that little tidbit. “You should know that they’ve turned me down for jobs ever since Pale Dreamer. Plus, I know for a fact they’re interviewing for a new stunt coordinator.”
“They can hire one, but whoever it is will have to give you final say. Given the reputation the mansion already has, the potential for lawsuits is staggering—even with the stack of liability waivers and insurance riders I’m making them sign. So I’m damn well going to have someone I trust on hand, even for something as simple as a right cross. So, if they want to film on my property—and trust me, they do—they’ll have to suck it up and give me what I want.
“And I want you,” he concluded.
Oh my.
“What’s the pay?” I asked, determined not to read anything into those last four words.
He told me.
“Hell yeah, I’m in,” I said. The amount he was offering would enable me to pay rent at Eden’s place for a good six months.
“Good. Meet me at the mansion tomorrow at three.” A beat. “There will be coffee.”
“Deal.”
* * *
DUSHANE MANSION
SIX MONTHS EARLIER
It’d been a while since anyone had come to the estate. Ned was growing bored, even as his children—as he thought of them—spread out over the greater Los Angeles area. Sure, their actions provided some sustenance, but the distance diluted it. It was like trying to live on cotton candy when he craved red meat.
So when the front doors opened and a big redheaded man entered with yet another real estate agent, Ned smiled in anticipation. Either the customer or the real estate agent would die today. Whichever way it played out, it would provide him with some entertainment, and more importantly, much-needed nourishment.
He decided to eavesdrop and went to the Great Room where they were standing.
“What do you think, Mr. Doran?” The real estate agent’s voice was sickly sweet, with the kind of simper Ned despised.
Sure, she was attractive in a fake sort of way. Hair dyed blonde. Small blue eyes with impossibly long lashes. Tiny nose that didn’t fit with the rest of her features, especially the oversized lips. Breasts larger than nature intended. The entire package wrapped in an obviously expensive skirt and jacket ensemble in charcoal gray, uncomfortably high heels finishing the outfit. She didn’t look comfortable or confident, despite the time and money she’d put into her appearance.
“This is exactly what I’ve been looking for.” The prospective buyer, on the other hand, looked relaxed and at home in a suit that fit his strong frame like an expensive glove.
“Oh!” The bimbo looked surprised. “And you’re okay with the property’s history?”
“Every place has history,” he said with a dismissive wave of a hand. “Doesn’t bother me at all.”
“Why, that’s… that’s wonderful.” Her face brightened, probably calculating her commission on the sale.
“Put my offer in immediately, please.”
“Right away, Mr. Doran.” She walked over to the French doors leading out onto the terrace and went outside, pulling a small silver rectangle out of her purse as she did so. A goddamn telephone.
Ned had seen some weird stuff over the decades thanks to the parade of meat puppets who’d come to the mansion, but this kind of stuff took the cake. He pushed aside the thought. It was time to decide how he wanted to play it with these two. Definitely be easier for the man to ice the woman—the guy could be a gladiator with those muscles.
The man looked up, ice-blue eyes staring right at the place where Ned stood. And damned if the son-of-a-bitch didn’t grin, as if he knew what Ned was thinking, and found it a real belly-tickler.
Ned frowned, and decided to see how it played out.
* * *
A month later the guy moved in.
Just the redhead gladiator at first. No staff. Just the cocky son-of-a-bitch himself, walking into the mansion. Striding into the Great Room and looking around as if… well, as if he owned the place.
As if he knew there was more going on than met the eye.
He would have to go, Ned decided.
That night, all of the revenants on the property were on the move. Ned watched in smug satisfaction as they rose from their graves all over the property, lurching and crawling toward the jerk who had dared to move in.
Ned grinned. He loved introducing new owners to the current occupants. Seeing their faces when rotting corpses staggered inside to say hello. Stay for a snack. Some people made it out of the mansion and off the property. More than a few autos and their occupants had been totaled trying to outrun madness.
The son-of-a-bitch just smiled.
“This the best you can do?” The man gestured at the half-dozen corpses that had lurched into the room. “Not impressed.” He tossed back his drink and muttered a few phrases of a language Ned didn’t recognize, although he felt the power that ran through them.
The revenants paused, then turned away. Before they went more than a few feet, however, their flesh dissolve into the floor.
What the fuck…?
This wasn’t how things were supposed to go.
“And now,” the man said softly, “it’s your turn, Mr. DuShane.”
Before Ned could do more than snarl, more words were muttered—dark, arcane language that cut off Ned’s energy supply with the suddenness of a guillotine. His “body” went limp, his mind fogging over until things went dark.
* * *
When Ned woke up—funny thing for a dead man to do, but there it was—he was back in the shithole room he’d died in. When he tried to get to the corridor, it was like walking into a brick wall.
Son-of-a-bitch.
He was stuck there again, with no access to his meat puppets or the source of his energy.
Ned roared in frustrated fury.
Upstairs, he knew, the new owner was smiling.