The Spawn of Lilith Page 17

  “Not really. No doubt your stunt coordinator will tailor the choreography to the sets. I don’t have any issue with the space.”

  He gave me an approving nod. “Darius is going to love you. Gracie was a little rattled by the close quarters.”

  “Darius?”

  “Darius Ciobanescu, the stunt coordinator.”

  “I don’t think I know the name.”

  “Oh, I did a couple of films with him in Romania. Darius wanted to do some work over here, so I pulled him in for this project. You’ll love him!”

  Sam Raimi, Quentin Tarantino, James Cameron, all of them had a reputation for hiring friends and sometimes family. There’s nothing wrong with nepotism, as long as the job gets done. I hoped Dobell was as careful in his choices.

  We reached the end of the Bootes set and climbed a ladder back down to the ground. I was pleased to note that the ten-foot drop to the cement floor didn’t bother me at all.

  The rest of the soundstage was shrouded in darkness, so even I couldn’t see more than a few feet in front of me. Dobell gave a call out in a language I didn’t recognize, although it sounded vaguely Nordic. Lights flickered on further into the soundstage, casting just enough of a glow further back in the cavernous space to show the exterior of another spaceship, all jagged edges.

  The surface was… disturbing. Seriously, whatever the set designer used to paint the exterior succeeded in creating a dark, oily sheen that screamed “bad guys in here!”

  It looked alien, hostile.

  “That,” Dobell said, “is the Morganti vessel.”

  “The Morganti being the bad guys, right?”

  “What was your first clue?”

  He gave me a quick, boyish grin and then led the way over to the Morganti ship, which was even creepier upon closer inspection. I stared up at it, impressed and repulsed at the same time.

  “What kind of paint did they use?”

  He shrugged. “I’m not really sure. I just know Rafaella showed me the concept drawings and then a sample of the paint that totally blew me away. Come on. If you think the exterior is creepy, wait till you see the inside.”

  I followed him almost reluctantly to a dark indentation in the middle of the ship’s hull. And oh, wow, he wasn’t kidding. The interior was borderline nightmarish. The set designer utilized shapes and curves not normally found in modern-day architecture and gave the impression of something not of this world.

  “Damn.”

  Dobell nodded, satisfied with my reaction.

  “I know. It’s good, isn’t it?”

  “It’s…” Fucked up. “…disturbing.”

  “Perfect!”

  I sniffed. “It smells like fresh paint in here.”

  “Well, fresh as of last night, but close enough.”

  More of the dark, oily-textured paint covered the interior walls, with splashes of a lighter shade reminiscent of the inside of oyster shells. But unlike mother-of-pearl, the colors used here were almost sickly. A pallid gray tinted with bilious green, mixed with a weird shade of purple that just seemed wrong. The overall results made me feel borderline nauseous. I blamed it on paint fumes in an enclosed space and kept walking. The floors were slotted metal, like the floors in a livestock feeding pen.

  Not a very comforting image.

  We stopped after a few feet, in a stretch of corridor with alcoves set into the walls, each one bearing a different item. Almost like trophy displays.

  One item in particular, a mask with two faces, caught my attention. Very similar to the classic drama mask for comedy and tragedy, but depicting a man and a woman instead. Neither side of the equation looked happy. It looked like a real artifact, something that would be found at an archaeological dig. I felt drawn to it, something familiar sparking memories I couldn’t quite grasp.

  I turned to ask Dobell if he knew its origins and found him studying me intently, his expression strange. I must have turned my head too suddenly, because suddenly a blinding pain struck me between my eyes. The back of my neck itched as if a family of fleas had just taken up residence.

  I gasped and reached out blindly, grabbing the railing in front of me as I was hit by an all-too-familiar dizziness.

  Oh no, I thought. I will not have the shit hit me now. All I needed was for Dobell to think I was Miss Fragile. I’d never get the job.

  I will not faint, I will not faint, I WILL NOT FAINT.

  I didn’t. The worst of it passed, leaving me shaken but not stirred. When I knew I wasn’t going to pass out, I looked at Herman Dobell again, only to find him gripping the railing too, sweat dripping down his brow.

  “Are you okay?” My voice sounded weak to my own ears, but he didn’t seem to notice. He started to nod, then stopped, holding a hand up. The knuckles were still white from clenching the railing.

  “Just dizzy. I’ll be okay. Just…” His voice trailed off.

  I waited, noticing how thin his features looked in the eerie lighting. I wondered if he was on the tail end of something like mono or Lyme’s Disease.

  “Okay. Better now.” He took in a deep breath, steadying himself. “Wow. That was not good.”

  “I think we should get out of here and let the paint dry,” I said. “And maybe open the elephant doors, get some fresh air in here if it won’t upset the design crew too much.”

  “Yeah. I think you’re right. I could use some more coffee, too.”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  He took his other hand off the railing, gave a little shake of his head, and led the way out of the set. We emerged at the far end of the soundstage, where another set of elephant doors was partially obscured by flats of wood and pieces of metal, all painted in the same disturbing shade as the rest of the ship. It smelled fresh, as well. I averted my eyes. Silly, I know, but just looking at it made my stomach give a final queasy flip.

  The further away we got from the Morganti ship, the better I felt.

  There were a couple of doors off to the side. Dobell saw me looking.

  “FX, set design, and props department.”

  “This is a seriously great facility,” I said, meaning it. “It really is. I was lucky to get first crack at it when it came up on the market. There’s not a lot of storage space for, say, multiple sets and wardrobes. But I’m not too worried. The property next door may come on the market, as well, and that would pretty much solve all my problems.” He paused, expression rueful, adding, “Well, not all of them, but at least the ones that are film related.”

  The shadow that passed over his face came and went so quickly that most people probably wouldn’t have noticed it.

  Dobell’s jacket pocket chirped. He took out his phone and glanced at the screen.

  “Jack is running late today. He’s not going to be here until noon.”

  “And Jack is…?”

  He smacked himself on the forehead. “I am so sorry. I don’t know where my head is at today. Jack Garvey. He’s the director. I thought I’d mentioned that earlier.”

  “You may have,” I said diplomatically, even though he hadn’t. “At any rate, I don’t mind waiting, if you think it would seal the deal.”

  He smiled at me. “Don’t worry, you’ve got the job. Meeting with Jack would just be a formality at this point, anyway.”

  “If you’re sure.” I gave an uncomfortable shrug. “It’s just, some people get kind of twitchy if they’re left out of the process.”

  Dobell waved a hand dismissively. “He’s got plenty of other things on his mind about now. It’s much more important for you to meet Darius.” We reached his office. The door was ajar, and he glanced at his watch.

  “Ah, good! He’s here.”

  Darius Ciobanescu stood up when we walked in. Dark hair, dark eyes. Short and stocky, with a lot of compact muscles under jeans and a light-weight long-sleeved cotton shirt. We took each other’s measure quietly and thoroughly.

  He emanated a quiet competence and a strength that didn’t need any advertising. We sat down, he look
ed at my resume, and asked me a few questions in a thick but understandable Romanian accent. Looked at my resume some more, nodded with a satisfied grunt, and then shook my hand.

  “Welcome to the team.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Anyone who’s ever tried to make it in show business will tell you that the best thing to do after an audition or meeting is to not think about it. Some people—usually ones who spend lots of money on New Age self-help books—will tell you to visualize the preferred outcome and then send it out of your mind.

  “Envision yourself putting your outcome in a little boat and then send it sailing down a river. If you let it go, like the baby Moses, it will find a nurturing environment and achieve great potential.”

  Or it could end up wandering around in a desert for forty or so years with a bunch of disgruntled Israelites.

  None of the articles or books tell you what to do when you actually get the job. I decided to give Eden a call and see if she was finished with her audition. Sadly, her phone went straight to voicemail.

  Rats.

  I left a quick message explaining I’d scored a stunt job, ending with, “I hope you rock your audition today. Talk to you later maybe?” I wanted to celebrate, dammit!

  Deciding to head home, I stopped at BevMo and picked up a bunch of good beer, raiding the craft brew section with the enthusiasm of someone who would soon have a decent paycheck.

  When I arrived at the Ranch, Sean and Seth were still out on set for the YA dystopian flick. The back yard was totally deserted. So I put the beer in the fridge, keeping out a Modern Times Monsters’ Park stout, which I carefully poured into a large snifter. I took a sip and sighed in contentment. If I ever stopped exercising, I’d need to develop a taste for less fattening beverages.

  Then I texted Sean.

  Got good news. Ready to celebrate.

  What’s your ETA?

  A few minutes later a text came back.

  Not sure what time we’re getting out of here.

  May have to celebrate later. Can’t wait to hear your news.

  Well, hell.

  I thought briefly about calling Randy. He was fun company and I knew he’d be happy for me, and totally into celebrating if he wasn’t busy. But somehow that didn’t seem fair to him.

  I really liked the guy and wanted to stay friends with him. Doing anything that might lead him on, even inadvertently, wasn’t the way to go about it. So I reluctantly shelved the idea. Instead I pulled out my copy of the Pale Dreamer script, taking it, my phone, and my glass of stout outside to the porch.

  There I glanced up at the rock outcropping, a little nervous, but there were no dark intruders in sight. Relaxing, I read and drank, enjoying the breeze wafting down from the mountains.

  * * *

  I finished the script and the beer at about the same time, equally satisfied with both of them. Herman was right about the writing. It was good. Both funny and creepy, with humor in just the right amount alongside the action and the scary stuff. Thrilling, fast-paced, and yeah, original and kind of edgy.

  The two main characters, Jeanette and Jake, were, respectively, an Israeli soldier and a born-again Muslim. Piloting a deep space repair ship, they find a derelict craft that’s reminiscent of a horror fun house, filled with corpses and an out-of-commission female android named Zoe.

  Jake and Jeanette cart Zoe back to the Bootes and bring her back on line. Zoe tells them about the Morganti, decadent thrill seekers searching for new forms of destructive and sadistic pleasure. They played dead while Jake and Jeanette explored their ship, but now they’re awake and eager for more fun.

  Jeanette had most of the action, including a truly kick-ass knife fight against Shaad, the male Morganti played by Joe Scout. Darius was doubling Joe, which meant this could be an awesome piece for my demo reel. It was one thing to work opposite an actor in a fight, but getting to work with someone who really knew what they were doing?

  That was the best.

  I put the script down, excited and frustrated at the same time. Dammit, I wish I had someone to celebrate with. This was so totally unfair.

  My phone beeped next to me. I looked down to find a text message from Randy.

  Hey Lee! Got another job, some motorcycle stunts for a Vin Diesel flick! You wanna have a beer and help me celebrate?

  Okay then… That officially took the onus off me. I grinned and hit the call back for Randy’s number. As soon as I got off the phone with him, I called in a couple of pizzas for delivery.

  Randy pulled up at the Ranch about an hour later. I went out to meet him, pleased to see bags full of yet more craft beer and munchies in the back seat. He saw me, jumped out of the car, and I blurted out my news.

  “You got the job!”

  He grabbed me in a big bear hug, picking me up and spinning me around. I let him do it without argument. It felt good to have someone happy for me.

  “And I wouldn’t have gotten it without Faustina,” I said after he’d set me back down on my feet. “Which means I wouldn’t have gotten it without you.”

  “That’s just kind of awesome.”

  “Congrats to you, too,” I said, not wanting to hog all the attention. “Vin Diesel, huh? That is so cool!”

  “I know, right?”

  I gave him a spontaneous hug of my own—not quite picking him off the ground, but close. We grinned at each other, happy energy sparking between us.

  The kiss that followed seemed a perfectly natural extension of the happiness, hitching a ride on the high of all the good news.

  Hmmm, I thought. He tasted good. Like chai tea.

  He didn’t kiss like a puppy either. No sloppy tongues or more enthusiasm than technique. I mean, there was plenty of enthusiasm on both sides, but Randy could kiss and he knew just where to press on the back of my neck and scalp, thumbs tracing my jawline.

  Within what seemed like seconds, our clothes were flying off onto the carport floor. He somehow managed to free my hair from its pins and braid, running his fingers through its length as we continued to kiss. We ended up in the back seat of Randy’s Challenger, bags of beer and food shoved to the floor. A tiny voice at the back of my head kept saying “Wait.” I promised the voice I’d deal with it later.

  * * *

  A very short but very entertaining time later, Randy and I started pulling our clothes back on, sweaty but satisfied. I didn’t ask him why he had condoms in his glove compartment, and he didn’t answer. It was enough that they were there when we needed them. I was so not ready for kids.

  I’d just pulled my jeans up when another car roared up the road below, going much faster than common sense dictated.

  “Oh, shit, is that Drift?”

  Randy and I looked at each other, then scrambled for the rest of our clothing. By the time the car—still breaking speed records—sped up the drive, we were both dressed and pulling out bags from the back floor of the Challenger.

  Nothing to see here, right?

  We watched the car, a red Camaro that had put in some time, screech to a stop a few feet away. A skinny Hispanic kid in board shorts and an aloha shirt jumped out of the car.

  “You ordered pizza?”

  “That would be me,” I said. “Hang on a sec, I’ll get my wallet.”

  Randy reached out and put a hand on my shoulder.

  “Let me get this.”

  “You sure?”

  He cocked his head to one side and smiled.

  “Yeah. You can get the next one.”

  I let him pay. Partly because I got the whole male ego trip, but also because I really couldn’t afford it. So I carried the beer and snacks inside while Randy dealt with our Nascar pizza delivery kid. The bags held a cornucopia of yumminess from Trader Joe’s. Dips, chips, snacks like bacon-wrapped scallops and tempura shrimp, and enough beer to satisfy the after-party for any of our Saturday training sessions.

  As the Camaro sped off down the drive, the front door opened and closed, and Randy joined me in the kitchen
with two large pizzas.

  “Hungry?”

  “Hell, yeah.”

  “If I say something about celebrating with a bang, will you hit me?”

  I gave him a sideways look. “Bad, Squid. Very bad.”

  “I thought it was pretty good, myself.”

  And there it was. The suddenly uncomfortable squiggly feeling in my stomach that told me I might have made a bad decision.

  “Look—”

  “Wait.” Randy put the pizza boxes on the counter. “I know what you’re gonna say, and you don’t have to say it, okay?”

  “I don’t?”

  He shook his head. “Nah. Look. What happened was great. More than great. More than I ever expected. And while it would be great if it happened again, I’m okay if it doesn’t.”

  “You are?”

  Did I sound a little insulted there?

  “Yeah. I mean, no, but yeah.” He shook his head. “I like you, Lee. A lot. You’re kind of amazing all the way around. But if I have to choose between sex and losing your friendship, it’s an easy choice. It would be nice if I didn’t have to choose, but I’m not stupid.”

  I looked at him for a moment. Really looked at him, past those generically handsome features.

  “No,” I replied. “No, you’re not.”

  Pulling out a couple of plates for the pizza and another snifter, I opened two more Monster’s Park stouts, poured them out, and handed him one. I tilted my head to one side and smiled at him.

  “Did you know your eyes go all gold when you’re turned on?”

  We settled on the couch with our pizza, beer, and snacks, and binge-watched Kolchack: The Night Stalker, a series made in the early seventies about an intrepid and kinda ghoulish reporter with a sixth sense for supernatural stories. We made it to the middle of Episode Five—the one that featured a werewolf on a cruise ship—before I fell sound asleep, head resting on Randy’s shoulder.

  * * *

  I woke up the next morning in my bed, a full glass of water on the bedside table and a note that said Thanks for sharing the celebration.

  Sean and Seth had come and gone since I’d fallen asleep, and someone had put away the leftover beer, pizza, and food.