The Spawn of Lilith Page 15

  I munched on some brie on top of a rosemary crisp and waited.

  Hayden cracked first.

  “So, what do you consider good cinematography? I mean, since you’re clearly an expert, you must have an opinion on the subject.”

  I considered the question. “A lot of old film noir. Blade Runner. The Duelists.”

  He nodded approvingly.

  “Classic Star Trek,” I continued.

  His nodding stopped.

  “The Lord of the Rings movies. Tron: Legacy. Dawn of the Dead.” I couldn’t resist adding the last one just to see the expression on his face, which was that of a man who’d bitten into a lemon dipped in vinegar.

  “Interesting choices,” he finally replied.

  “I’m not all that picky.” I shrugged. “I just don’t like it when the camera work ends up being so clever-clever that it gets in the way of telling the story.” I picked up a celery stick dipped in some sort of sundried tomato humus dip and took a bite, not caring if he answered me or not.

  He nodded as if he’d come to a decision.

  “It’s been interesting talking to you.”

  “Likewise,” I said. I suspect we had the same definition of “interesting.”

  He turned and walked back inside. I continued to eat, wondering why I was so unperturbed by the fact that I’d just been rude to a complete stranger. Probably because my opinion had bounced off his armor without leaving so much as a scratch. Connor Hayden clearly didn’t give a shit what I thought.

  Eden returned with more wine.

  “What happened to your new friend?” she asked, handing me a cup filled to the brim.

  “He moved on to more complimentary pastures.”

  “Or greener fans?”

  We both giggled.

  “Any sign of Megan?”

  Eden rolled her eyes. “She’s in earnest conversation with little Kenny Shakespeare.”

  “Do you think he’s as pompous as his DP?”

  “Worse!”

  “I don’t know,” I said doubtfully. “It’s hard to top a guy who’s too proud to drink wine out of a plastic cup.”

  “Hey, we need to toast your good news!” She raised her cup. “Here’s to your new agent!”

  “And your audition tomorrow!”

  “To the future,” we said at the same time.

  We thunked our cups together and drank.

  * * *

  “Please… Let me out. I’m hungry. So hungry.”

  He shook his head.

  “I can’t. You know I can’t.”

  She started sobbing. He knew she would. He hated it. It was so hard to resist her tears. Even though some of it was pure manipulation, he knew she suffered.

  “Please! I hurt. I’m going to split open from the hunger.”

  “I’ll fix it,” he said softly, as much to himself as to her. “But I can’t let you out yet. You know I can’t. I can’t hide it anymore. You have to trust me.”

  “Please…”

  Somehow he shut the sound of her sobs away from his consciousness.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Flash! Ahh-ahhh…

  I thought it might be time to change my ringtone.

  I hadn’t drunk even close to the amount Eden and I had consumed at Ocean’s End and I’d gotten to bed at the respectable hour of eleven, but it still seemed awfully early for my phone to be ringing. Or singing, as the case may be.

  Why was my phone under my pillow?

  I groped around and pulled it out, glancing at the number.

  Faustina.

  I immediately sat up and hit “answer.”

  “This is Lee,” I said, doing my best to sound like I’d been up for several hours, worked out, showered, and had five cups of coffee.

  “This is Faustina,” she said brightly. “Sorry I woke you.”

  So much for my acting abilities. Then again, she didn’t sound sorry at all. I flumped back down in the nest of pillows and blankets.

  “No worries. What’s up?”

  “Can you be in Culver City by nine thirty?”

  “A.M. or P.M.?”

  She chuckled. “Ooh, you’re a funny girl; A.M., of course.”

  I glanced at the time. Seven. If I got up and got out in a half hour, I’d have a hope in hell of making my way through rush hour traffic.

  “I can make it.”

  “Excellent! You have an interview. It’s a moderate-budget horror film. Small cast, small crew. The stunt double for the female lead recently left the project, and they need a replacement yesterday. Pay’s SAG minimum, weekly rate. You’ll be seeing the producer, Herman Dobell. I’ve emailed him your resume and headshot, but you might take a copy just to be on the safe side. Never hurts, right? Got a pen?”

  All of this was rattled off without so much as a hint of breath in between words or sentences. Maybe she didn’t need to breathe.

  I grabbed a pen and notebook off the bedside table.

  “I’m ready.”

  “It’s on Jefferson Boulevard, south of the ten, off of Robertson. Stephen J. Cannell used to have some of his studio operations there. Now there are a bunch of creative think tanks and shared work spaces where everyone sits on pillows. Still a couple of production facilities, though.”

  I nodded, even though she couldn’t see me.

  “Any suggestions on wardrobe?”

  “Something tight but not too tight, and give the impression you can handle whatever comes your way. Your resume pretty much speaks for itself. Good luck!”

  With that, she hung up.

  I immediately stumbled out of bed, making a beeline for the shower. I stayed in there for five minutes, during four of which I ran the water steaming hot. The last minute I ran it cold enough to wake me up. I didn’t have time to dry my hair so I just pulled it back into a tight braid coiled at the nape of my neck.

  Then I pulled on a pair of snug jeans with some Lycra in the fabric in case I needed to demonstrate any martial arts or gymnastics. Plus they were comfy. How did women live before the invention of stretch fabric? I paired those with a tastefully tight cherry-red V-neck T-shirt and a pair of black faux motorcycle boots. The boots looked tough, but were supple enough to allow for plenty of movement.

  I looked curvy, but all the hard work I’d done on Steel Legions had definitely paid off. I was back to fighting trim, even if my trim was a size or four larger than the Hollywood standard. A quick smudge of a smoky eyeliner, some mascara, and Burt’s Bees Black Dahlia lip stain, and I was good to go. The only jewelry I wore was my mother’s amulet.

  Sean and Seth were already out, working on Twitch, a big-budget action flick with plenty of stunts involving helicopters, tall buildings, and wire work. A film adaptation of the latest hot YA dystopian series with lots of angsty teens, a repressive authoritarian government, and a heroine named Justice. Who, by the way, was blind.

  I was pretty sure Jada was one of the stunt players on this one. I hadn’t asked Sean a lot of questions about the project, but she’d dropped some pretty heavy-handed hints when I was around. Like “Gee, Sean, thanks so much for hiring me on Twitch!”

  Try as I might not to think nasty thoughts about her, it wouldn’t break my heart to hear that she’d accidentally done a face plant that wasn’t in the script. Say, in a big old mud puddle. No bodily injury. Just a little… humility.

  My ill-temper faded a bit when I saw that one of the guys, most likely Sean, had brewed a pot of coffee before they’d left, and there was still more than enough left to fill one of our many travel mugs. I threw in a splash of cream and sugar, and dashed out the door.

  Rush hour at either end of the work day is brutal pretty much all over the LA Basin, but the 101 is its own special piece of hell heading south in the morning. I could take the 101 to the 405, head over the dreaded Sepulveda Pass, and connect to the 10, or I could drive over the Santa Monica Mountains to Pacific Coast Highway—a suckfest all on its own—and take surface streets once I hit Venice Beach. According
to my GPS, both routes were moving at the speed of a very unambitious glacier.

  I decided to suck it up and take the 101.

  * * *

  It took a full hour to get to Sunset Boulevard and then another forty-five minutes to reach Culver City. By the time I turned onto Jefferson Boulevard, I had a full bladder and approximately five minutes to make my appointment on time.

  One thing Sean hammered into my head once I started working for him was never be late for a meeting or a call time. If I was going to be late, I better be either dead or in traction. I couldn’t use either as an excuse today, so I drove a little faster than the speed limit advised while looking for the address.

  There were several rows of converted warehouses behind iron fences on the south side of Jefferson, running the length of several blocks. They looked kind of like airplane hangars, all rounded tops and metal exteriors. Every two buildings shared a gated entryway, with the addresses posted clearly next to the gates.

  Third one down I found the match for the address Faustina had given me. I swerved across the street, barely missing a gardening truck barreling down Jefferson. Ignoring their justifiably outraged honking, I pulled into the first available parking spot and hustled up to my destination.

  The building had big double elephant doors, currently closed. There was a much smaller glass door that had the address plastered in larger letters right above it, as well as a sign that said Dobell Studios. I didn’t see anyone inside and expected the door to be locked, but it opened easily.

  In the lobby the walls were free of art or posters. To the right of a single desk, a hallway vanished off into the distance, with several closed doors leading off of it. I hoped one of them was the bathroom.

  The rest of the lobby consisted of a couple of blandly upholstered chairs, a water cooler, and a little table with a few magazines—mostly People, Entertainment Weekly, and my favorite junk magazine, US. I mean, gotta love the Fashion Police, right? And it always comforts me to know that “Stars Are Just Like Us.”

  A bell sat on the front edge of the desk, like the sort you’d ring at a hotel to get someone’s attention. I rang it once and then hastily sat down, crossing and re-crossing my legs while I tried to lose myself in an article.

  “Hi there.” A male voice, soft-spoken and soothing, like auditory honey. The word that came to mind was “mellifluous.”

  When I looked up, the man standing in front of me gave the impression of a human praying mantis. Tall and thin, almost ascetic at first glance. Prematurely graying blond hair, ice-blue eyes that would look at home on a husky, and a thin face with high cheekbones so sharp they looked as though they might cut you if you touched them.

  He wore what looked like an expensive suit that fit just a little too loosely, as if it’d been tailored when he was ten pounds heavier. The overall impression was that a harsh word or a strong wind would blow him away. I found myself wanting to speak very quietly and gently, and offer him soup.

  “Herman Dobell.” He held out his hand with a smile that transformed his rather ordinary face into something special. “I’m the producer.”

  “Hi.” I smiled at him with my best friendly-yet-professional smile. “I’m Lee. Lee Striga.” Taking his outstretched hand, I shook it. A nice grip, firm but not trying to prove anything. I tried to ignore the little frisson of electricity I felt when our palms touched.

  “Sorry you had to wait,” he said, letting go of my hand almost reluctantly. “When I can, I like to greet people myself. See what they’re like right off the bat.”

  “So no receptionist?”

  He shook his head. “Not for interviews. You can tell a lot about someone when they think they’re waiting for an assistant, instead of someone in charge.”

  I thought I might like this guy.

  “Did you learn anything about me?”

  “Well, I know that you’re punctual, and you’re polite. Not a bad start.” Dobell smiled again, showing off those cheekbones to advantage. My eyes flickered involuntarily—and briefly—to his left hand.

  No ring.

  Of course, that didn’t mean anything in this town where women wore wedding rings to avoid unwanted attention and men hid them to keep their options wide open.

  Not that I’m cynical or anything.

  “Let’s go back to my office,” he said.

  I nodded, putting the US down as I stood up.

  “Will I be meeting with the director and the stunt coordinator, as well?”

  “Well, Miss Striga,” he said gently, “I’m not just a producer on this film. I’m also the executive producer, and I believe in a very hands-on approach. When I back a production, I meet everyone who’s hired and make sure that they’ll bring the qualities and talent that I demand.”

  “I see,” I said.

  “I’ve given a lot of people their first chances in the industry. The director is one of them. He’s talented and creative, but sometimes his criteria are very different from mine. Perhaps it’s my ego talking, but when it comes to certain judgment calls, my experience speaks for itself.”

  It sounded like Herman Dobell had some control issues. Then again, if he was putting out the money, who was I to give a shit?

  “Would you like some coffee?”

  “I’m good, thank you.”

  “Are you sure? I’m going to have some. I kind of hate drinking alone, even if it’s just coffee.”

  I hesitated.

  “Don’t worry,” he added quickly. “I make good coffee. None of that instant crap.”

  Well, okay then.

  “In that case, I’d love some. If you don’t mind, though, I’d love to make a pit stop first. It was a long drive here.”

  “Of course. Right this way.” Dobell led me down the hall and pointed the way to the ladies’ room. “Here you go. My office is two doors down on the left. Meet me there when you’re done.”

  I thanked him and was halfway through the bathroom door when he said, “How do you take your coffee? And is Americano okay?”

  “Cream and sugar, please, and absolutely!”

  He gave me another one of those heart-stopping quicksilver smiles, and headed off down the hall.

  I did my business, took a quick glance at my face in the bathroom mirror to make sure my makeup was still doing its job, and hurried back out. I was anxious to continue with this meeting. Herman Dobell intrigued me on a number of levels, and not just because he’d promised me coffee.

  Although that didn’t hurt.

  * * *

  A few minutes later I sat across from him in front of a utilitarian desk in a small, windowless office. A big mug of extremely good coffee rested in front of me. A table in the corner housed an expensive Breville espresso maker and the aroma of freshly ground coffee beans floated in the air.

  The office, while relatively small, held a remarkable jumble of books, scripts, head shots, and resumes in semi-organized fashion. At least a hundred scripts were stacked on top of one another in a couple of white Ikea bookcases, while the head shots and resumes took up most of a utilitarian desk, separated into six piles. Dozens of books seemed to hang suspended midair thanks to some free-standing metal shelves scattered around the room. One was only partially filled and kind of reminded me of a human spine.

  “Those are cool,” I said.

  He grinned. “Aren’t they? They’re called spine towers, and they’re great when you’ve run out of wall space for bookshelves.”

  He had my resume on the desk directly in front of him, all by its lonesome. I recognized the head shot, one I’d had taken a month before the accident. He tapped the picture with an index finger.

  “Great shot. You have amazing eyes. They show well, even in black-and-white.”

  “Thanks,” I said, having learned long ago to accept a compliment without trying to persuade the giver they were wrong. “Although, honestly, it doesn’t matter all that much when you’re doing stunts. My eyes have yet to be featured in a close-up.”

  �
�Ah, but I imagine this—” He tapped the picture again. “—has gotten you through a few doors, if only because the producer or director wanted to meet you.”

  I barely stopped myself from rolling those amazing eyes. “Well, hopefully it’s my resume that got me through this door.” I gave him what I hoped was a friendly yet neutral smile. I didn’t want to alienate a possible employer, but if he’d called me for an interview to ask me on a date—well, he’d picked the wrong head shot.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, shaking his head. “That came out rather badly.”

  I took pity on him. “No worries.”

  “Seriously, your resume is really impressive. When Faustina tossed your name into the ring, I didn’t realize you’d worked with Sean Katz.” The phone rang. Dobell glanced at the screen, then looked at me apologetically. “Can you excuse me for just a minute? I need to answer this.”

  “No problem.”

  He stuck on a Bluetooth headset, swiveling his chair to face the other direction. I turned my attention to the books on the free-standing shelves and did my best not to eavesdrop.

  A lot of New York Times bestsellers, genre fiction and literary, as well. One shelf was devoted to nonfiction, with a lot of books on religion, myths, and magic. Another held history books covering a wide range of subjects—everything from wars to weapons, clothing and architecture to diseases. I pulled out a book on the outbreak of Spanish influenza and flipped through it.

  “Sorry about that.”

  Startled, I swiveled my chair back around to face him.

  “No worries.” I hastily put the book back in its place.

  Dobell glanced down at my resume again. “Vampshee. Wasn’t there a stuntwoman injured on that show?”

  I heaved an involuntary sigh.

  “I’m sorry, is there a problem?” He didn’t say it as if he expected there to be one, though. It sounded like he was concerned that he had offended me. Of course, he was the producer. It was his job to be diplomatic.

  “It’s just that there are certain expectations that come as part of the Katz Stunt Crew,” I said slowly. “When I got injured on Vampshee, it made it difficult for me to live up to those expectations. Since most of the jobs they’re offered include lots of high falls and challenging aerial work, I’m trying to take a step back and build up my resume in other areas.”