The Spawn of Lilith Page 13

  “Why the hell do you need representation?” Seth looked offended at the very thought.

  “Um… to get more work maybe?” I wanted to say more, but I didn’t want to hurt Sean’s feelings, especially after last night’s text screw up. I also didn’t want to ruin the unexpected truce with Seth, although the frown gathering on his brow should have come with a storm warning.

  “That’s just—”

  “That’s not a bad idea.”

  Seth and I both shot startled glances at Sean.

  “No, really,” he continued, holding up a hand to head off Seth’s inevitable argument. “Look, Seth, until Lee gets back up to speed on the falls and aerial work, she needs to be working.” He gave me a rueful smile. “I get that now, Lee, and I’m sorry I was so stubborn about it before. And no disrespect to Randy, because I like him and think he’s a good kid, but I’d rather see you get paid what you’re worth. You should have gotten a big pay bump for working with someone as unstable as a Priaptic. Faustina would have made that happen.”

  He looked at Seth. “The more Lee works, the more her confidence will build and the sooner she’ll be back working with us.” He smiled at me. “And then maybe you won’t need an agent anymore. So give her a call. Set up a meeting and see if you think it’s a good fit.”

  Nodding, I started to dial Faustina Corbin’s number, then stopped. “You wanted to talk to me about something, didn’t you?” I said, still holding the phone. “I can call her later, if you want.”

  “It’s okay, hon,” Sean said. “I think it can wait.”

  * * *

  After much reading and online consultation, it was time to try again. It appeared as if everything had been done correctly. The ingredients were right, the incantations as they should be. By all accounts, the creatures summoned, while dangerous, should be easily controlled.

  When asked why the demons had taken such a sacrifice, the answers had been unanimous. “We don’t know.” Maybe there’d been a mistake, so infinitesimal as to not have been caught. Several practitioners opined that the blood sacrifice might indeed have been stale.

  It was time to try again. Too much depended on the success of these experiments. Hopefully no one else would die.

  But if they did?

  It was worth it—as long as things could be brought under control.

  * * *

  “Delfino, are you coming in? The tamales are ready!”

  Esther looked out the kitchen window of her Echo Park home, to the carport where her son fiddled under the hood of her ancient Toyota Corolla. The late afternoon summer sunlight faded behind the hills to the west, replaced by lengthening shadows.

  “In a few, Mama!” he called back. “Just finishing up with the oil change. Gotta make sure you have a smooth ride to work tomorrow.”

  “Okay. Just don’t be too long. Te quiero, mi hijo!”

  “Yo tambien, Mama!”

  Esther smiled and went into the living room. She was lucky. Del was such a good boy. It could have gone so badly. He had only been ten when his dad died. Instead of running wild, he’d taken the role of what he saw as his mama’s protector. He was the man of the house, and men took care of things. They worked. Brought home money and paid for food.

  Delfino found his true love early in life, thanks to auto shop in high school. It’d kept him out of trouble, given him something else to do while his former friends got drunk or, worse, shot each other in the streets.

  He’d rather fix his mama’s car than go out drinking.

  At least that’s what he told her. She thought it was a mentirijilla—a little white lie—but what was the harm in that?

  Yes, she was a lucky woman.

  She hoped he’d hurry in before the tamales got cold.

  * * *

  Out under the Corolla, Del finished draining the old oil into an aluminum roasting dish that substituted for an oil pan. If any stray drips missed that, the plastic sheeting he’d spread out would catch them, He didn’t want any stains in the driveway.

  Del had inherited his mama’s love of cleanliness and order. Even as a kid he’d kept his room clean, everything in its place. Funny how he’d fallen in love with a profession where it was impossible to avoid getting filthy.

  Still, he’d do his best to wash the grease and grime off his hands and face and change clothes before sitting down at the kitchen table. Del’s stomach growled at the thought of the homemade tamales waiting for him, his insides clenching with hunger.

  Sure, his friends thought he was a mama’s boy because he’d stayed home to work on her car instead of going out to whatever local hangout they’d picked for the night. Let them think what they wanted. He’d stay out of trouble, get his mechanic’s license… and in the meantime, enjoy the best damn tamales in the LA basin.

  His stomach growled again, a low liquid sound, almost scary.

  Funny, he hadn’t felt it that time.

  The light under the car flickered, as if telling him to hurry.

  Del finished installing the new gasket on the plug, tapping his wrench with a rubber mallet to tighten it in place. He smiled at a job well done, just about to slide out from under the car when the light flickered again.

  And went out.

  Startled, Del dropped the wrench. It clattered onto the concrete, the resulting echo much louder than it should have been.

  That growl again, this time coming from the front of the car. Definitely not his stomach.

  Something snuffled at his feet and legs where they stuck out from the undercarriage. Del chuckled, a wave of relief washing over him.

  “Milo, you stupid mutt. You scared the shit out of me.”

  Milo, their asshole neighbor’s pit-bull, must have gotten out of his yard again. Scariest looking dog in the complex, but a total pussy. All it took to stop Milo from barking was a stern glance. From a five-year-old.

  But man, that smell. Like someone had taken a shit and mixed it with rotten meat.

  “Jeez, Milo, what the hell they feeding you?”

  Another growl sounded, this time seeming to reverberate all around the car. Both liquid and guttural at the same time. It didn’t sound like Milo, or like any dog Del had ever heard before.

  His skin crawled.

  The temperature dropped abruptly. His shirt, all damp with sweat, suddenly stuck to his flesh in icy pinpricks. Del thought if he tried to pull the fabric away, his skin might rip off with it.

  “Madre de Dios,” he breathed, switching to Spanish without conscious thought. Something scraped against the passenger side of the Corolla. Del imagined long steel nails raking dents in the metal, the sound overly loud and painful on his eardrums. His scrotum constricted, as if his entire nutsack was trying to crawl up inside his body and get away from whatever was out there.

  Something snuffled his legs again. Del held perfectly still, wanting desperately to curl up into a tiny ball under the car, wait until whatever was out there went away. But if he moved… would it bite him?

  He shut his eyes, the words to the Lord’s Prayer spilling out of his mouth in Spanish, the way his mom had taught him.

  “Padre nuestro que estás en los cielos, Santificado sea tu Nombre. Venga tu reino…”

  The reek of dead things filled his nostrils and he tasted rot on his tongue. His stomach heaved involuntarily, bile filing his mouth in a sour rush.

  He kept talking.

  “Hágase tu voluntad en la tierra como en el cielo… Danos hoy el pan de este día y perdona nuestras deudas como nosotros—”

  Jesus, why was it so dark?

  “—perdonamos nuestros deudores y no nos dejes caer en al tentación sino que líbranos del malo.”

  The world went black. It was like someone had thrown a tarp over the car, blocking out all the natural light, leaving him in total darkness. Something brushed up against his side. He screamed and involuntarily sat upright, bashing his head against hard, sharp metal.

  Dazed, Del fell backward. He had just enough survival instinc
t to push away on the dolly, rolling backward out from under the Corolla. He emerged into an unnatural darkness composed of roiling shadows shot through with an unhealthy rainbow shimmer. They blocked out the sight of his house above.

  Del stayed frozen in place, staring up from the dolly. It had to be a concussion—he was seeing things.

  “This isn’t real. Isn’t real. Isn’t—”

  Claws dug into Del’s scalp and neck and pulled him back under the car.

  * * *

  Esther glanced up at the clock and shook her head. It’d been ten minutes since she’d called Del in for dinner. He probably lost track of time. He did that when working on cars. Time to give him another shout.

  She opened the kitchen door to the outside. “Del, mi hijo, your food is getting cold and—”

  The words froze in her throat as she looked down into the carport where her son’s legs and feet kicked and twitched against the concrete. Dark liquid pooled out from under the car, followed by something darker and more fluid that settled on Del’s legs and… and shredded them.

  * * *

  Later, when the police arrived—summoned by a neighbor who heard Esther’s screams—all she could tell them was that her boy had been eaten by the shadows.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  I sat in the small lobby, trying to ignore the smells of ancient cigarettes and desperation. Photos of celebrities and movie posters lined the walls. If Faustina’s reputation and Randy’s recommendation hadn’t preceded her, I would have wondered how many celebs or movies were actually connected with the Mana Talent Agency, and how much of this was just putting on a good face.

  Ah, Randy.

  He was hoping that if Faustina took me on as a client, it could lead to more jobs together. I liked Randy, would work with him again in a heartbeat, and wouldn’t even mind hanging out and drinking beer. I just didn’t want to date him. He was a puppy. A cute puppy, but the only things puppies inspired in me was the desire to cuddle them or shoo them out of the way, depending on my mood.

  Randy wasn’t looking for either.

  Still, I couldn’t help but smile when I thought of our last day of filming on Steel Legions. The car chase was everything we’d hoped it would be—so much fun it nearly made up for the rest of the shoot. I’d never driven a car that handled as well as the Cayman, which lessened the pain of having to do the driving while dressed in Vixenia’s ridiculous costume. Seriously, it was like Frankenfurter’s answer to Nascar.

  Who thought that was a good idea?

  I took a surreptitious glance around the lobby. Two other hopefuls waited there, as well. An extremely curvaceous female in pants and a shirt tight enough that they might as well have been skin. Face like a young Angelina Jolie, including lips so full they were almost distracting. Even reading a magazine, she exuded sexual promise.

  Definitely a succubus.

  I hid a smile, wondering how many succubae and incubi Faustina Corbin saw on a weekly basis. Seriously, I’d bet at least one out of every hundred aspiring actors and actresses have a seductive demon in their bloodline. It’s how the talentless become superstars.

  Across from the succubus sat a painfully thin male humanoid with a pale-green complexion, so faint it could be dismissed as a trick of the light. His hair was light blond, also subtly tinted green so it looked as if he’d been swimming in chlorinated water for an entire summer. A kelpie, or maybe a dryad. I didn’t want to be rude and check for gills, and the difference between earth and water critters could be tricky to spot.

  I was the only full-blooded human in the room.

  Still, Corbin had agreed to see me. Whether as a favor to Randy, an attempt to get on Sean’s good side, or out of genuine interest, it was yet to be determined. Still, I’d make the most of the opportunity. I needed an agent, and I needed work.

  “Lee Striga?”

  I looked up to find a pleasant-looking woman somewhere in her forties smiling at me. Glossy dark hair drawn back in a bun, a few wrinkles on her forehead and tasteful crow’s feet at the corners of both eyes. Just enough to give her character without really making her look old.

  The perfect receptionist.

  “That’s me.” I smiled and stood up, making sure my top didn’t ride up over the waistband of my low-rise jeans and trying not to be conscious of the fact I wasn’t a size two. Or four, or even a six.

  The woman smiled again and nodded toward the door.

  “This way.”

  Clutching my resume and headshot, I followed her down a hallway carpeted in plush hunter green, toward a closed door with an embossed FC on frosted glass panel. Much classier than the lobby led one to expect.

  The woman opened the door, gesturing for me to go in. I did, noticing and appreciating the immediate aura of “relax” that washed over me when I stepped inside. More plush carpeting, dark leather furniture, armchairs like the ones you’d find in a men’s club or a hunting lodge. A large dark-wood desk hunkered down against the far wall, dominating the room. Instead of the walls being wood panels—which would have completed the whole men’s club décor—they were cream colored with elegantly framed photos of very high-profile clients. All of them supes, though most people wouldn’t know it.

  The door shut.

  “Have a seat.”

  I glanced away from an autographed photo of last year’s Best Actor winner, the inscription thanking Faustina Corbin for all her hard work, and looked at the woman who was sitting across from me on the far side of the big desk.

  “So,” I said. “You’re not the receptionist.”

  The dark-haired woman who’d escorted me in gave a low chuckle.

  “Well, yes, I am, at least for today.” She smiled at me. The smile, while not devoid of warmth, also wasn’t quite human. I couldn’t quite place my finger on what she was. Yet.

  Give me time.

  “Tracy is out with the flu. So it’s just me.” She smiled again. “You want some coffee or water?”

  I shook my head. “I’m good, thanks.”

  Faustina Corbin heaved a sigh of relief. “Thank goodness, because I have no idea how to work the fucking Nespresso machine. Which is actually a real pain in the ass, because I do not have time to deal with the lines at Starbucks.”

  “Nespresso? We have one of those at home.” I spoke without thinking. “I can show you how it works, if you want.”

  She eyed me hopefully. “I’ll be honest. I would kill for a latte about now.” I almost asked if she’d sign a new client for a cappuccino, but decided against it.

  Corbin pointed over to a tiny kitchenette tucked away in an alcove. An older model Nespresso machine sat in glossy red splendor, a selection of cups and saucers piled up around it. There was a mini-fridge on the floor, with an array of sweeteners and those fancy little shakers full of cinnamon, vanilla, and chocolate perched on top.

  Setting my purse and resume on my chair, I went over to the alcove and pulled out some non-fat milk from the fridge.

  “So you put your milk here,” I said, filling the little reservoir in front. “The water goes in the back.” I checked and it was already topped off. “Then you pick out which capsule you want—”

  “I like the black ones,” Faustina cut in. I looked up to see her smiling contentedly at me from behind her big-ass desk. I raised an eyebrow.

  “So you don’t want to know how to use this?”

  “I’m good.”

  My eyebrow went even higher.

  “You’re doing great,” she added with an expansive wave of one hand. “And honestly? I won’t remember. Call it laziness, call it a short attention span—”

  “Call it convenience,” I muttered, hitting the button for two shots and steamed milk. Honestly, a trained monkey could operate one of these things. Which made me wonder if Faustina Corbin only took on clients who’d make her lattes.

  “What was that?”

  “Did you want any sugar in this?”

  She brightened even more.

  “How about hon
ey? Is there honey over there?”

  I looked. Sure enough, a SueBee honeybear sat in between a jar of Splenda and a box of sugar cubes. Honey had dripped onto the sugar cubes.

  I squeezed in a dollop, then added a little more. Then, because I was there, I made myself a quick cappuccino, then started to clean the milk reservoir.

  “Don’t worry about that. Someone’ll deal with it later.”

  “How’d you know I was going to clean it?” I picked up both our beverages, trying not to slosh on the carpet.

  She shrugged. “I’ve seen Tracy do it.”

  “Sure you don’t know how to use this and weren’t just making me jump through hoops?” I set her latte down midway across the desktop, noticing that she was perusing my resume.

  Her smile widened.

  “You’re a Katz, right? There’s no need to make you jump through hoops. You kids fly through ’em.” She took a sip. “Ooh, this is good!” She gave a happy sigh and drank more latte before turning her attention back to me, or rather, my resume. I took my seat and waited while she looked it over, nodding and muttering to herself.

  “Hmmm. Yup. Uh-huh…”

  I sipped my cappuccino. Was it my imagination or did it taste better than the ones I made at home?

  “So I guess my question is, why do you need an agent at all? If you’re one of Sean’s protégés, he pretty much books the work without an intermediary. I call him if something comes down the pipe I think might interest him, and he’s sent me a few potential clients, but we have a very informal agreement.” She looked up. “I’m assuming he’s told you this.”

  I nodded. “He did.”

  “So? Tell me why you need me.”

  A weird way to put it, but okay.

  I took a sip of my cappuccino. “You know I’m adopted, right? Sort of a faux Katz. I don’t fly. At least, not without wires and CGI.”

  “Yeah, I know, but Sean pretty much raised you, which means you’ve done more high falls and aerial stunts than a lot of seasoned performers, right?”

  I guess I could have—and maybe should have—lied right then. Said I’d be willing to do falls. Then find a way to get out of those jobs. But wouldn’t that be worse? I’d get a reputation as being unreliable and lose whatever cred I might still have left.