Make Me Dead: A Vampyres of Hollywood Mystery Page 6

  She stood and reached for me with both hands, but I backed away. I had to remember this was no longer the Maral I’d controlled for so many years through her love for me. She was vampyre now, with the power and strength of my kind. But without the maturity. I knew when I turned her I was taking a chance; I saw first hand what turning Rudy Valentino had done to him— made him so unbalanced I’d had to kill him to save the rest of my clan. And I knew Maral’s father had damaged her in so many ways that she’d never truly healed her neuroses. I shouldn’t have turned her. I should have let her die.

  “Please, Ovsanna, you’ve got to help me. Let me come back to you. I could feel something again if I could be with you, for true. I loved you so much; I remember those feelings, I know I could find them again if we were together. Please. I’m begging you.”

  She had her hands clasped together in front of her, as though in prayer. I put mine around them and held them as I said, as gently as I could, “Listen to me, Maral. You’re very young. Newly-made. It’s only been months since I turned you. You’re like a baby who only knows when it’s hungry or sleepy or uncomfortable. You haven’t learned to appreciate the nuances of your circumstances. As time goes on, you’ll forget what it was like being human. You’ll forget those cacophonous feelings humans suffer with— the intensity of those feelings. That doesn’t mean you’ll have to be alone or you won’t be able to care for someone. It just means you won’t need anyone the way you used to. You certainly won’t need me. It’s very freeing, believe me.”

  She tore her hands away and struck out at me, just missing my face with her open palm. She was fast, but I was faster. I grabbed her wrists and held her while she screamed, “I don’t want to be free! I don’t want to wait until I’ve forgotten what it’s like to feel. If I can’t feel anything and I can’t be with you, then I don’t want to BE! At least, please… kill me, Ovsanna. You owe me that. You turned me, you made me this—”

  “Stop, Maral!” I hissed. Whispering, I said, “You’ve got to disappear. Now.” I’d heard the elevator doors open down the hall and I recognized a scent.

  “What are you—”

  “Peter’s coming. This isn’t the time or the place for you two to meet. I’ve got a hell of a lot more explaining to do before I tell him where you are. Can you shift? Can you transform? Did Theda teach you anything useful?” She stared at me, unmoving, her eyes filled with rage. “Oh, fuck it. Go in the bedroom and wait until I let him in, then go out the bedroom door.”

  Peter’s knock galvanized her into action. “You’ll regret this,” she said as she backed away. “Choosing him over me again. You’ll regret it, you bitch.”

  “Don’t threaten me, Maral,” I whispered, “and don’t come back. You get to Theda and Charles and you stay with them, and I promise you, in time…” I didn’t finish what I was saying. Peter had used his key card to open the door and was calling out to me to unlatch the safety chain.

  Maral disappeared into the bedroom. I heard her exit the door to the hallway as I let Peter into the living room.

  13. OVSANNA

  “You look like shit,” I said, and he did. Dark under the eyes, eyes a bit unfocused. His voice was scratchy, like he was catching a cold. And his kiss was perfunctory, to say the least.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, “I’ve got a lousy headache and I didn’t get much sleep— think maybe those cold oysters did me in.”

  I suggested he go back to his room to rest, but he insisted on walking me to my table in the ballroom. From there he was going to Sam Koh’s office to look at security footage from the parking garage. Then he was going to roam the convention, in case Angel Detroit was nuts enough to try again.

  She wasn’t. Or at least, she didn’t. I never saw her and I didn’t smell schizophrenia in the air. The day went by without incident; well, except for the moment when a transvestite Bride of Chucky fainted at John Barrowman’s feet. His wig came off, leaving his skullcap exposed. His chicken fillets popped out, leaving his cleavage deflated. Say good-bye to any resemblance to Jennifer Tilly. When he came to, he was so mortified that he pulled the tablecloth off John’s table to cover himself. That sent Captain Jack Harness and Malcolm Merlyn pictures flying everywhere. Barrowman, Scottish mensch that he is, gave the fellow a hug and let him keep the cloth.

  Later in the day, there was a bit of commotion when a handful of evangelical demonstrators showed up outside the lobby. They were carrying signs demanding ZOMBIES— REPENT TO BE REBORN. The Walking Dead fans, dressed as zombies, of course, took umbrage. They tried zombie walking through the picket line. The church folks, in true Christian fashion, beat back the zombies with their signs. Matty had to call the security detail to break up the melee.

  But other than that, the day was a success. The Buffy attack on me had garnered another day’s news coverage and a big increase in ticket sales, so Matty was happy. The police had kept Angel’s identity as a guest of the hotel quiet, so Sam Koh was happy. I spent time talking to everyone who wanted my autograph, so the fans were happy, although Matty worried I’d be signing long after the doors closed. Well, there were people who’d flown in from Australia and Japan and Germany, not to mention from all over the States. One couple had come from Iceland on their honeymoon, flying through volcanic ash to get here. Since they were such devoted fans, I thought the least I could do was chat them up a bit to make their trip even more memorable. I told Matty I’d forego lunch to keep to the schedule. Not a big sacrifice on my part, if you think about it, but he was satisfied.

  Finally, at seven o’clock, an hour after everyone else had finished, I signed my last photo. Actually, my last 40 photos. Some hardcore collector dressed as Liberace had paid in advance for me to sign his collection of pictures of my mother. If he only knew.

  Monk and two officers from the security detail escorted me to the Truman Capote ballroom where a Q & A with my cast from Mid-Evil had already begun. There were about 250 people in the audience and they were laughing at something the moderator had just said. I did a quick scan to see if Peter was there. He was, sitting way in the back, unobtrusively keeping his eye on everyone.

  I was depending on him to help me get through the VIP Meet and Greet for the gold ticket holders at nine in the hotel cocktail lounge. We’ve only been seeing each other— I’m sorry, I just can’t call it “dating”— for six months, but he’s gotten very good at helping me disguise my non-eating-and-drinking habits. Somehow he makes food disappear off my plate without anyone being the wiser. And I can coddle the same glass of wine for hours without anyone noticing.

  Annie Ross was just getting settled on the panel as I walked in. She was a half hour late. She’d changed clothes, at least. Gone were the short shorts and corset, but what she’d replaced them with wasn’t much better. This girl must have developed her fashion sense playing with Frederick’s of Hollywood Barbie dolls. Her dress had cutouts in the cutouts and the double-stick tape she’d used was way past its sell-by date. Oh well, probably better if the fans were ogling her rather than asking her questions.

  She took a seat at one end of a table on the makeshift stage, as far from Constance as she could. Cerina Vincent and Michael Worth separated them, and there was a chair waiting for me in the middle. Cerina plays Maid Murael in the show and Michael is Lord Rowan. They’re both series’ regulars and favorites of the show’s fans. The chair next to mine was for Derek, but he was nowhere in sight. I whispered to Monk to find him and get his ass in here and then took my seat, as Glen Pitre, who was moderating the panel, made my introduction.

  I’d met Glen when I filmed Mojo Working in south Louisiana. I fell in love with him and his wife instantly. He’s an award-winning filmmaker who put himself through Harvard working as a shrimper in the bayous every summer, and attained international acclaim for his 1986 film, Belizaire, the Cajun. An author, a documentarian, even the recipient of a knighthood in France, I had a feeling his questions would be fun to answer and definitely not ones I’d answered a thousand times before
.

  “The reviews for Satan Gone Bad are great, Ovsanna,” he started, “I haven’t had a chance to see it yet, but as soon as I get my prescription for Valium refilled, it’s on my list. From what I’m hearing, it is one scary film. And upsetting, too, to a lot of people. Catholics, especially. Here in New Orleans, that’s a lot of people. Did you deliberately set out to scare the shit out of the religious?”

  “No, Glen, not especially. I just wanted to scare the shit out of everyone.” The audience laughed. “I think some people believe in Satan more than others, and that made my job easier where they’re concerned. If you don’t believe in the devil, it’s not likely you’re going to react on such a visceral level when you see him doing those devil-y things. Not as you would if he were a constant presence in your life already.”

  “What about you? Do you believe in the devil?”

  “Well, let me put it this way. I laughed through most of The Exorcist. But… I believe in the devil I put up on the screen. She’s got to be believable or the film won’t work.”

  “That’s another thing. I can’t remember another film, or novel, or anything where the devil is personified as a woman. What made you do that?”

  “I wanted to play the role.” I grinned. “Do you blame me? Villains are always more fun. And that’s the advantage to owning the studio. Who’s going to tell me I can’t play whatever role I want to play?”

  “Only your investors, and only if you’re not making money. So it doesn’t seem like anyone’s going to be saying no to you anytime soon. And I would think with the success of this one, you can play any number of famous men. Anyone else you’d like to do?”

  “Maybe Sean Bean. Oh wait, that’s not the ‘do’ you meant, is it?” Another laugh from the audience. “Oh well, another of my fantasies spread all over YouTube in the next five minutes. At least, I’ve got good taste, right?” Several women in the audience yelled out their agreement.

  Glen had a wireless mic. He started walking down the center aisle. “Okay, before I take up all our time, who’s got a question for Ms. Moore or the actors from Mid-Evil?”

  A tall, skinny boy in a black Night of the Creeps t-shirt and baggy ass jeans stood up and pushed his way down the row. Glen put the mic in front of him.

  “Hi. Uh, my name’s Mike, and I just gotta say, I mean, you still look really hot. I mean, I saw… well, like… Return to Bitch Mountain is one of my favorite films, and you don’t look any different than when you did that and I mean, you must have, like, a picture in your attic like that guy, you know, that Darren Grey guy, you know, ’cause you really look hot, and I saw that, that other chick that was in that movie with you, uh awhile ago, I mean, she didn’t, you know, she didn’t get to be a big success like you but… and she looks like a dog. She’s got her lips all swelled up and her face is all round and shiny ’cause she’s probably using those Botox things and—”

  Glen cut in, not a second too soon. “Mike, have you got a question for Ms. Moore?”

  “Umm, well, no, I just wanted to say that… except, like, well, what’s your secret? I mean, how do you stay looking so hot?”

  If he only knew.

  “Well, thanks, Mike,” I said, “that’s quite a compliment. I suppose I do have a secret or two, but I’ll never tell. I’ve got good genes, though. Those of you who are old enough to know my mother’s work will know what I’m talking about.” I rarely bring my “mother” into the conversation, but this kid needed to be side-tracked.

  “Uh, okay,” he continued, “well, are you, like, single? I mean, have you got a boyfriend or anything?”

  “Whoa, Mike,” Glen took the microphone back, “no wonder your jeans are hanging half way down your ass. You must have a big pair of balls in there.” Mike’s face turned pink, but he started laughing. “I’ll tell you what,” Glen continued, “when the Q & A is over, you go out to the gift shop and pick up a copy of In Touch Weekly, you’ll probably find everything you need to know in there.” He walked back to the center aisle. “Who’s next with a question?”

  Someone in the back yelled, “Weren’t you scared when that vampire slayer threw that thing at you?” Glen ignored him and held the mic out to a middle-aged woman in a dominatrix costume.

  “Hi,” she said, waving her whip at me. “My name’s Agnes Guidry and I just want to tell y’all how much I love your show. The program says Derek’s s’posed to be here and I’m just wond’rin’ why he’s not. He wasn’t at his table today either, which is sorta shitty. Are you guys gettin’ divorced, Annie? And another question for Constance… isn’t it weird playin’ his mother on the show and then sleepin’ with him?”

  “Boy, Ovsanna,” Glen interrupted, turning away from the woman, “you didn’t tell me I’d be hosting a Jerry Springer panel. I think I’d better ask the next question myself. You mentioned your mother. How many of you know Anna Moore, Ovsanna’s mother?” About half the hands in the audience went up. Glen turned back to me. “She had quite a remarkable career, but she died before you achieved your own success as an actor. Here in the States, at least. I read that you were studying at the Royal Academy of Dramatic Arts when your mother became ill, and you moved here to care for her. Would she have been proud of your fame, do you think, or did she not want you to be in the business?”

  If he only knew… well, Glen, the truth is my mother never died and she wasn’t my mother to begin with. She was my grandmother, and great-grandmother and on and on and, well, I was her, and them, and the simple explanation is that I’m vampyre. 450 years old. But you’d never believe that and there’s no reason you should. The less people who know we exist, the better.

  I was saved from lying through my teeth— which I’m quite good at, by the way, as long as my fangs haven’t dropped— by Monk, who moved silently to my side and whispered in my ear.

  I stood quickly. “I’m sorry, Glen, I’m going to have to excuse myself for a few minutes. One of those production fires that has to be put out. Thanks, everyone. I’m sure you’ve got a lot of questions for Annie and Cerina and Constance and Michael, and with me not here to keep their lips sealed, you’re going to get answers even TMZ doesn’t have. Now’s your chance to come up with some juicy ones.” I waved and followed Monk off the stage, catching Peter’s eye as we moved toward the door.

  He caught up with us in the hall and fell into step beside me. “What’s going on?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” I answered. “Monk said it’s an emergency. There’s a problem with Derek.”

  14. PETER

  There was a problem with Derek, all right. A big one.

  He was dead.

  He was lying on the floor with a 4" long crystal obelisk rammed between his shoulder blades, just to the left of his spine.

  His body was stretched out in the middle of the hotel room that had been set up to use for photo ops with fans and their favorite celebrities after the Q & A. Aside from his body, there wasn’t much in the room: a table with six industrial-sized photo printers, and a blue canvas backdrop, hanging midway in front of the back wall. I’d seen the way it worked the night before during my search for Ovsanna’s attacker. The celebrities had a set time they were scheduled to appear. Fans, who’d paid in advance to have their pictures taken with their favorite star, lined up around the perimeter of the room and were then quickly herded toward the celebrity, who stood his ground on a mark on the floor, guaranteeing the lights facing them would ensure a good shot. In two minutes, the photos were printed and the fans could take them back to the celebrity’s table to get gouged again, paying for yet another autograph.

  The hand-painted sign taped on the wall outside the door had SuzieQ and Spiro Agnew and Edwin Edwards— or whoever she’d brought with her, I can never remember which name goes with which snake— slated to pose in less than an hour, at 8:50. Well, that wouldn’t be happening.

  The unpleasant part for the female celebs, according to Annie Ross who’d been bitching about it when I visited her table yesterday, was ha
ving a tall fan who was nervous at being so close to his idol, drape his sweaty arm on her shoulder and wipe his body odor all over her. It probably would have helped if she were wearing something that wasn’t cut down to her navel, but that didn’t seem to cross her mind. She’d taken to using anti-bacterial wipes instead.

  Well, Derek was long past needing anti-bacterial wipes. And it didn’t matter what he was wearing; the only shots he’d be posing for were crime scene photos.

  I wanted to get close to the body, but Sgt. Cyphers wasn’t in the room and the two rookies from the security detail had their hands full with crowd control. They didn’t want to know from a Beverly Hills detective, even if I did have the victim’s movie star boss in tow. They let us in the room, but told us to stand by the door and wait for Cyphers or the on-call detectives to show up with the medical examiner.

  From where we were standing, I had a pretty good view of Derek’s body. Whoever had stabbed him had used a lot of force. I recognized the weapon from somewhere, even though most of it was buried in his back.

  “What is that, Ovsanna? I know I’ve seen one like it just since we’ve been here. More than one, in fact, but I can’t think where.”

  “It’s a sorcerer’s hat, fashioned out of crystal. A replica of the one the wizard’s character wears in Mid-Evil. And yes, I’m sure you’ve seen more than one. Every one of my actors has them for sale at their tables. The fans love them, use them for paperweights, give them as gifts. Out of all the merchandise from the show, they’re one of the best sellers.”

  “I remember. Annie Ross had half a dozen of them lined up around her while she was signing. She said the crystals gave off healing energy.”

  Not for Derek, they didn’t.

  “That woman at the Q & A said Derek hadn’t been at his table today,” I continued. “Do you know anything about that?”