Vampyres of Hollywood Read online

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  Baileyd

  For my Armenian heroines: Aunty Ruby, Aunty Anna,

  and Grandma on the Ranch; and to Jocelyn,

  the best sister in the whole wide world.—AB

  For Claudette, again.—MS

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  It took an X-ray and an autopsy to confirm that Jason Eddings had been killed with the Oscar he’d won for Best Actor just six hours earlier.

  He deserved it.

  The Oscar, that is.

  As for being murdered, well, he probably deserved that, too.

  Jason Eddings was a great actor, all five feet, five inches of him. He was also one of the most ignorant, arrogant, and egotistical people I have ever known. And when you’ve been around as long as I have, that’s a big pool to draw from. I’d like to think that good people, deserving people, hardworking people are the ones who succeed in this town but that’s hardly the way it works. Jason Eddings was a prime example of a celebrity asshole who achieved stardom in spite of his nasty nature, or maybe even because of it.

  And it shames me to admit it, but I helped him do it.

  I’d been the first one to hire him; I’d discovered him, turned him from a bit player into a star. And more.

  So I was there, three rows from the stage, during Tinseltown’s annual exercise in self-adulation, when Eddings, eyes shining wetly, raised the Oscar above his head and repeated the threadbare sentiment: “I can’t believe this is happening to me. Not with such incredible actors in this category.”

  What generosity.

  What graciousness.

  What bullshit.

  Needless to say, no one believed him. Jason has been called a lot of things, and humble isn’t one of them. Naturally, he didn’t even deign to look in my direction.

  I watched him walk offstage holding the Oscar like a sword above his head, trying for an impression of Russell Crowe in The Gladiator. That was a mistake. Jason was many things, but Russell Crowe he wasn’t.

  And six hours later he was dead.

  He was found in the back of his complimentary limousine; the eight-and-a-half-pound statue he’d won for Best Actor stuffed—Variety said “rammed”—into the orifice by whose name he was often called.

  It was the perfect Hollywood scandal: a superstar murdered at the height of his career—a legend in the making. The press went wild. Marcy Fisher from Entertainment Tonight broke her arm trying to climb over Access Hollywood’s Annie Lake to see inside the limousine where Jason’s body was found.

  The chauffeur, in true Hollywood style, made sure he had a deal in place with the highest bidder for his story before talking to the police. According to the report he gave Star, Eddings had been partying behind the limo’s privacy screen with an almost-dressed young woman and a rather striking transvestite. By the time they reached their destination—the Spider Club—and the driver opened the back door to let them out, the girl and the tranny had disappeared and a naked Jason was laid out across the side seat with only the head of the Oscar visible.

  The limo, a stretch Hummer naturally, along with the driver’s uniform, is already up for auction on eBay—two separate lots of course—available for delivery as soon as the cops release them. Bidding on the uniform started at $20,000. The death car should reach six figures as long as they don’t clean it. And there’s a rumor that the Oscar will be sold by private auction.

  Jason’s death didn’t bother me. My kind rarely cry. But this is Hollywood, land of make-believe: if you look at my picture in People magazine, you’ll see a delicate track of tears on my cheek…thanks to my makeup artist and a menthol blower.

  I didn’t think too much of Eddings’s death; an asshole like him—and I use the term deliberately—was bound to come to a messy end. But a week later Mai Goulart, the sweetheart who co-starred in my last movie, Vatican Vampyres, was found dead in her refrigerator between the hummus and the slaw. Or rather, her head was. The rest of her showed up in various places across the city. Like both breasts in the trash bin behind Du-Par’s.

  Jason’s murder I could understand. He had a lot of enemies and his friends weren’t too fond of him, either. But Mai? She was twenty-three. She’d only been in town four years and her career had just started taking off. She still showed up for work on time, still came out of her trailer when the AD called places, still said “please” and “thank you” when a PA brought her water, and greeted the crew by name when she came on set. Mai didn’t have enemies.

  Jason and Mai had one thing in common, though, known only to me and a handful of others. I began to think there might be a connection.

  Three days after that, Tommy Gordon, the macho star of FOX’s latest Highway Patrol epic, Cop Jocks, was found dead in his Jacuzzi. The initial police report said the suction from a faulty drain held him down until he drowned. In Touch Weekly, sometimes a more reliable source than the Beverly Hills Police Department, suggested his manhood got caught in the filter. I knew from personal experience there wasn’t much chance of that, unless it was a very, very small filter.

  There’s a theory in this town that whenever a star dies, two more follow within days. Those are natural deaths; these were anything but. It was Tommy’s death, the third in less than fourteen days, that convinced me I had a problem.

  A serious problem.

  The police came to the logical conclusion: someone was picking off the Hollywood A-list. They were thinking deranged fan, celebrity stalker, pissed-off paparazzi. I knew better. Jason, Mai, and Tommy had one thing in common, and it wasn’t their A-list status.

  Eddings, Goulart, and Gordon were all vampyres.

  Yes, vampyres. Undead, bloodsuckers, call them what you will: they were vampyres.

  Most of the above-the-line names in Hollywood are. You see, it was the birth of the cinema that led the Undead to their true calling: movie stardom. The screen magnifies their presence. They’re luminescent on film. You can’t take your eyes off them. And you can forget everything you think is true about vampyres, including the garlic, mirrors, and silver allergies. Because everything you know about the race is informed by movies, and everything you know is wrong, because vampyres control the cinema.

  I know.

  Because I, too, am vampyre.

  I am Ovsanna Hovannes Garabedi
an, Chatelaine of the Clan Dakhanavar of the First Bloodline. I am full born, not made, pure-blood, able to create others in my image.

  But you know me as Ovsanna Moore, writer and star of seventeen blockbuster horror films, several less than successful ones, and a few that went straight to DVD.

  I love the irony: The horror movie scream queen is a real vampyre.

  Chapter One

  They don’t call me the Scream Queen for nothing. “Where is he?” I shouted, and everyone who wasn’t deaf, drunk, or dead heard me. “Where the fuck is Travis now?”

  I did a hard twist in the air so I could scan the soundstage behind me. I was strapped into a safety harness forty feet up, desperate to go to the bathroom and royally pissed.

  Yes, I do need to go to the bathroom occasionally, just not as often as the rest of you. And it isn’t pretty. A diet of red blood and raw meat will do that to you.

  No one answered me. Below me an entire crew, seventy people at least, hustled around like they knew what they were doing and, whatever it was, it was so important they hadn’t heard me shout. Most of them had worked with me for a long time. They knew I rarely shouted, and when I did, someone was about to get his ass reamed. They also knew that my temper was legendary.

  Finally, Candy, the 2nd. AD, raised her head and looked up at me. I swear she should have been acting in this film instead of assistant directing—I’ve worked with stars who couldn’t show as much fear in their face. She’s an adorable little freckle-faced pixie with a featherweight boxer’s body and macho attitude to match. The attitude was fast disappearing. And this was only her second week.

  “I’m sorry, Ms. Moore. Mr. Travis said his blood sugar was low and he needed a protein bar from his trailer. I offered to send a PA, but he insisted he’d be right back.”

  “In the middle of a scene? This fucking scene! I’m hanging up here like Amish laundry flapping in the wind and he walks off the set! Is he fucking nuts?!” I spun in the harness. “Goddammit, Tony, get me out of this thing.” Tony Tanner motioned to Jamie Long, and together my stunt co-coordinator and stunt double started lowering me down without a word.

  I was halfway to the ground when Neville Travis, the boy-wonder director, object of my unmitigated rage, strolled casually back onto the soundstage, a cell phone pressed to his ear. Even at fifty feet, I could see the traces of white powder under the nail of his right pinkie finger. His eyes were dancing like Maria Tallchief in Firebird.

  “Hey, Ovsanna, what are you coming down for, we’ve got two more setups in this scene.” He was smiling, for God’s sake. A lamb to the slaughter. A coked-up lamb…about to be spit and roasted.

  “I may have two more setups, Neville, but you don’t. In fact, I have the rest of this film to shoot, but you don’t.” Tony and Jamie dropped me gently to the floor. I unbuckled the harness and let it drop to the ground while I drew myself up to my full height—which, at five feet, six inches, is not very full. It still put me eye to eye with the little turd. I put my hands on my hips and pushed out my chest—and that brought him to a halt. “We are two days behind schedule. Two full days, Travis. Now I don’t know what it’s like in MTV-land, but losing two days on an Ovsanna Moore film is enough to send you back to whatever junior college you managed to get through. Nobody walks out on me in the middle of a take, do you understand that? Nobody!”

  “What do you mean? What do you mean? You’re firing me?” The coke was making him reckless and overconfident. He went for overfamiliarity, which I despise. “Ovsanna…hey, Ovsanna, sweetheart, baby, I wasn’t walking out on you, I just needed a candy bar, you know, for my blood sugar.”

  “You needed candy, all right, but not for your blood sugar. Wipe your nose, Neville; you’ve got white stuff all over it. And don’t ever call me baby.” I turned and headed for my trailer. At a look from me, Shaheed, our 1st. AD, called lunch. I swear I never saw a set empty so quickly.

  Travis trailed after me. One of the curses of my kind is a heightened sense of smell and hearing. Those senses served us well thousands of years ago, warning of intruders, keeping my Dakhanavar Clan alive. Normally I manage to filter out the extra input. But not today. Rage messes with my control. I could smell Neville Travis: the Abercrombie cologne, the failing deodorant, the fungus between his toes, and the dried blood in his septum. I didn’t mind the blood so much but the fungus made me want to puke. And I can’t do that; my kind has no gag reflex.

  Neville’s voice turned wheedling. “Listen, Ovsanna, you were wonderful in that take. You know that. I didn’t think you even needed me there, you’re so good. Hey, come on, we’ll finish lunch and then speed through the day’s schedule, maybe even grab a couple of shots we owe from yesterday.”

  I didn’t look over my shoulder, didn’t even raise my voice, but on the empty set it rang and echoed off the bare floor. “You finish your lunch, Neville. And enjoy it. Because it’s the last one you’re having around here.” I walked up the steps of my trailer and closed the door behind me.

  Maral McKenzie, my personal assistant, was at the desk in the back room. We’d converted it from a bedroom into an office when the production company bought the trailer for me three movies ago. I didn’t like sleeping back there; I’d rather stretch out on the sofa in the living room so I can hear what’s going on outside and know when the DGA trainee is coming to get me. That’s the advantage of being Clan Dakhanavar—I can hear conversations all over the lot. I get a kick out of opening the door a fraction of a second before he knocks just to see the surprise on his face.

  Maral was looking beautiful in a bizarrely cut black and white suit, Dolce & Gabbana probably. She’s twenty-eight and she’s been with me almost ten years. She’s Warm, and one of the few outside the clan who knows the truth and still loves me in spite of it. Or maybe because of it. That’s one of the few things she’s never told me; maybe she doesn’t know herself. She had her titanium Mac Pro up and running and I could see a version of my Web site on the screen. Probably answering letters posted to the guest book page or updating the “personal” blog I never write. She raised a razor-sharp eyebrow in a silent question.

  “Get DeWitte on the phone. I want Travis out of here and off the set. I’ll direct this damn movie myself if I have to.”

  “It may not be that easy.” Maral’s managed to lose most of her accent, which hails from somewhere between the Louisiana swamps and Jackson Square. A Cajun girl with a Scottish last name—go figure.

  “Why not? What do you know that I don’t?” I was having trouble with the zipper on my costume and she came over to help. I turned my back on her and raised my arms. The zipper hissed down and the leather and lace costume slid away. I stepped out of it and Maral draped a silk dressing gown over my shoulders.

  “Travis is Thomas DeWitte’s fair-haired boy. Mr. DeWitte thinks he can do no wrong.”

  “Yeah? Has he seen him on the set?” I turned to face Maral. “It’s a wonder he hasn’t caught his cock in the clapper. I doubt he’s even looked at the budget for this movie.”

  “DeWitte’s been championing him all over town. Word is that Embassy is ready to hire him as soon as we wrap. You fire Travis and Thomas DeWitte’s got shit on his hands.”

  “Oh, brother. Don’t tell me…. Thomas is sleeping with him, isn’t he?”

  Maral shrugged. “Possibly.” I was staring at her. “Probably.” I raised my eyebrows. “Definitely.”

  “God damn it.” I stretched out on the couch and closed my eyes. “Set up a meeting. We need to remind Thomas DeWitte just who calls the shots around here. Remind him that I’m the senior partner in Anticipation Studios, not him. He’s still only head of development. I walk and he’s finished.”

  “I’m not sure he’ll see it that way.”

  “Well, he should. Besides, he needs to remember his history. If it weren’t for me, he’d still be making porno down in Tijuana.”

  Maral had my costume in her hands, ready to hang it in the closet. She turned back to me and stared. “I didn�
��t know he was a director.”

  “Actor, dear, actor. You’ve never seen Going Down on the Titanic? Check my video collection; I think I’ve got the uncut version.”

  She shook her head and laughed. “I didn’t know he had it in him.”

  Score one for me…. I bit my tongue and didn’t rise to the bait.

  A half hour later the smell of Neville coming across the lot brought me back to consciousness. Usually I close my eyes for ten minutes, go into a deep sleep for five of those, and awaken refreshed and ready for the next scene. A half hour is a luxury I don’t often get. Maral had helped me take advantage of this one.

  She stood up from the couch, buttoned the sleeve of her suit, and handed me a Kleenex for my mouth. My relationship with Maral is discussed ad infinitum in the gossip rags, but no reporter has even come close to the truth. The tissue came away red. She took it from me, folded it, smiled and flushed it down the toilet.

  Neville knocked. Maral looked to me for an answer.

  “Let him in.” I sat up on the couch, closed my robe and threw my boots on the chair across from me. He could come in, but he wasn’t going to sit.

  Neville’s eyes were red. I couldn’t tell if it was the coke or if he’d been crying. I didn’t smell any weed, just his sweat. I stared at him, curious to see which approach he’d take. He’d already tried bonhomie and wheedling. My guess was he’d try for a straight-out apology and an excuse.