“Yeah, that’s why they call it a hunting lodge. You’re putting on quite a show.” I tilted my head toward the window and the audience standing there.
Macy grinned. “I thought I’d shake things up a little.”
“Uh, yeah.”
I went back inside, leaving the man to his lack of modesty. He followed me in, not caring a bit that the others suddenly looked everywhere else but at him. Except for Lee, who was smirking right along with me. Something about being a lycanthrope made being naked not all that big a deal.
“Convinced yet, Conrad?” I said.
He shook his head. “It’s a trick. Provost probably dumped that carcass out there.”
The bummer thing was, he wasn’t wrong. A scene like this would have been easy to stage.
Macy didn’t pause for conversation but went straight to the stairs, where Grant was descending. The two passed each other awkwardly.
Hands in his trouser pockets, Grant faced us. “I seem to have missed some excitement.”
Maybe Conrad was half right. Maybe this had been rigged—just not the way he thought. I glanced sidelong at one of the cameras. “I think Provost may have put Jerome up to a little fun,” I said. “But hey, we had to get started with the freaky shit sometime.”
“Er—language, Kitty,” Ariel said.
I shrugged. “That’s what editors are for.”
Conrad crossed his arms. “Odysseus—despite your name, I think you may be the most rational person here besides me. You really believe all this? You believe Jerome is a werewolf? That Kitty is? I mean, a werewolf named Kitty—how do you expect anyone to buy that?”
“Because I’ve seen her shape-shift,” he said.
Conrad opened his mouth to reply, then closed it again.
“My offer still stands,” I said, hitching my thumb toward the door. “I’ll go shape-shift right now and we can finish up this whole thing.”
Tina raised a hand. “I’d go for that—I haven’t seen you shift. And how did he see you shift? What’s the story with that?”
“Long,” I said. “Complicated.”
“I guess that means you’re not going to tell us.”
“What happens in Vegas, as they say,” Grant said, brow lifted.
Did he just crack a joke?
That, then, was going to be the tone for the entire two weeks: something freaky happening, maybe prompted by Provost, maybe not; then Conrad grumbling about how it was all a setup; Valenti, Cabe, and the PAs running around to capture it on film. I assumed the events would escalate—the incidents would get weirder, and Conrad’s denials would get lamer, until he had a moment of epiphany. And probably a spectacular nervous breakdown, to boot. Then we’d all reconcile and grow together as human beings. Reality shows liked to convince the TV-viewing public that they were all spontaneous and, you know, real. But a good editor would be able to turn the footage from this week into a retelling of War and Peace.
Midmorning, Provost dropped in to see how we were doing. The daily check-in. His producer face was as plastic and smiley as ever. I was sitting on the porch, feet propped on the railing, reading a book when he bounded up the steps, arms spread in greeting.
“Kitty! How’s it going? Enjoying yourself?”
“Yes. Quite,” I said noncommittally.
“You couldn’t find anything more, ah, photogenic to do than read a book?”
“You don’t think this is photogenic? Look at it this way, you include footage of me reading, you’ll appeal to your intellectual demographic.”
He stared blankly, and he was probably right: he didn’t have an intellectual demographic. I knew I was in trouble when he pulled over another of the chairs and settled in for a chat. He leaned forward, elbows on knees, acting chummy, but the gesture made me cringe and want to growl. Some people had no respect for personal space. He might have been a high school guidance counselor in a past life.
“I wondered if you could do me a favor,” he said.
“Another one?” I said. I was pretty sure I wouldn’t like whatever he was about to say.