The Spawn of Lilith Read online

  Then it began.

  Small thread-like filaments emerged from Sala’s tongue, penetrating Mindy’s flesh and burrowing deep into the soft skin inside her mouth, then down her throat. More filaments emerged from Sala’s fingertips and the palms of her hands, like the tendrils of a jellyfish. Each one finding its own path into Mindy’s skin.

  Each one sending its own increasingly painful current into Mindy’s nervous system. Pleasure became pain and she jerked backward, trying to tear herself away from Sala’s embrace. When she did, it felt as though she were ripping her own flesh out.

  Sala looked even more skeletal than she had inside—parchment pale, fragile, almost childlike. But her grip around the back of Mindy’s neck was inescapable even without the spider web of threads now spilling out of every pore, binding the woman to her in a deadly cocoon.

  Mindy would have screamed, but her mouth was full of what looked like spun sugar, the white threads turning a pale pink, then giving way to a crimson red as her life drained away, penetrated by thousands of electric needles. The pain finally stopped when Mindy’s heart collapsed in on itself, her other organs quickly following suit. Her body hidden underneath a seething mass of crimson red strands.

  Minutes passed and the strands drooped from Mindy’s desiccated flesh. Sala’s skin was flushed with nourishment, pale skin rosy, cheeks fleshed out. The strands retracted, leaving her holding what looked like a life-sized paper doll, the face drawn in a rictus of pain and terror.

  With a sad smile, Sala let Mindy’s corpse slide to the ground.

  “Better now?”

  Sala didn’t bother looking at her brother.

  “For now, but it won’t last. It never lasts.”

  He wanted to argue with her, but couldn’t. He just knew he had to fix this. If he didn’t, she would die.

  And without her, he would die, too.

  CHAPTER TWO

  I was totally going to die if I didn’t get a job soon. Because if I didn’t get a job, I couldn’t afford my own place. And if I didn’t get my own place, I was gonna kill someone, and then I’d go to prison. Which meant I might as well be dead.

  I love Sean. I really do. Most of the time. But I’d moved out two years ago for a reason. The same reason I currently considered uncle-cide as a viable life choice.

  Okay, faux uncle-cide. When my parents died in an untimely accident, I’d been left without any real relatives. Sean had been the next best thing, being both my godfather and my dad’s best friend. I guess I’d been more or less bequeathed to him in the will.

  “Just think,” I liked to remind him. “They could have left you their car, but instead you got me.”

  So instead of growing up in a bungalow in Venice Beach where my moderately successful screenwriter parents had lived, I’d spent my formative years on a ranch in the heart of the San Fernando Valley, hanging out with an ever-shifting pack of stuntmen and wannabe stunt-puppies.

  That’s what I call the newbies.

  “You gonna jump any time today, Lee?”

  Speaking of newbies…

  “Bite me, Randy,” I growled, glaring down from my perch on the high fall practice tower.

  “Any time, babe,” Randy said.

  The yard took up most of the acreage and included a barn-turned-equipment-storage, the high fall tower with an airbag, a Russian swing, several trampolines, a butt-load of crash mats, and plenty of space for basic fight training—both armed and unarmed. On any given day you’d find at least a dozen people, both professional and wannabes, training here.

  Unfortunately, today one of them happened to be Randy. He had the sort of generic good looks that enabled him to double for any number of equally generically good-looking actors. He also had talent, which should have endeared him to me. It didn’t.

  Down below, he gave me a mocking grin.

  Asshat.

  A gust of wind whipped a stray strand of dark hair into my mouth. I tucked it back into the thick, waist-length braid meant to keep the whole shebang out of my way, and concentrated on the task at hand.

  The tower—kind of like a metal ladder with additional structural support for stability—had platforms at ten-foot intervals, the highest point being sixty feet above the ground. I’d made it to the twenty-foot platform before my stomach dropped and the backs of my legs started tingling.

  Fucking acrophobia.

  I’d jumped off cliffs, buildings, and this stupid tower countless times. While most girls my age had been shopping at the Galleria, I’d been practicing my high falls. So to suddenly have lost my nerve after all these years? Well, it just sucked.

  If you’re involved in the film industry and know anything about stunts, you’ve probably heard of the Katz family. They’re practically Hollywood royalty, at least in the stunt biz. Known for aerial gags and high falls taken from heights considered insane to attempt. I might not be a Katz by blood, but I was part of the Katz Stunt Crew. And the KSC didn’t do fear of heights, even if the acronym sounded like a cross between the Russian secret police and a fried chicken franchise.

  Problem was, I still bore scars—physical and emotional—from my close encounter with the sidewalk. It’d been six months, and even though I knew the airbag below was inflated correctly and exactly where it should be, my gut clenched at the thought of flinging myself off into the void again, even from a measly twenty feet.

  God, this pisses me off.

  “You got this, Lee.”

  Joe “Drift” McKenzie, a thirty-something stunt driver, gave me a thumbs up from the sidelines where he watched with his friend Jim “Tater” Tott, a former Army Ranger turned stuntman. They were tall and broad, and both sported mustaches and short cropped beards, making the two of them look as if they should be related. They weren’t, but both were long-time members of Sean’s inner cadre.

  I gave Drift and Tater a bright smile, trying to hide what I felt. Because if they thought I was afraid or in pain, it would mess with how they viewed me professionally. Problem was, I’d been training with some of these guys for years. We all knew one another’s weaknesses and strengths.

  It’s not easy to hide fear from family.

  “What the hell, Lee?”

  Speaking of family…

  I looked down to the base of the tower. Sean’s son Seth Katz was eyeing me without love. My stress level immediately shot up a few more notches.

  See, I’ve spent a lot of time practicing Zen and the Art of Asshole Maintenance over the years—more even than learning how to drift cars and crash through plate glass windows. We’re talking a bunch of hours here.

  If looking into Sean’s eyes immediately calmed me down, Seth’s cold stare generally signaled stormy weather ahead. A disapproving look from him always made my stomach churn, like I’d eaten too much candy and washed it down with a pitcher of cheap margaritas.

  Eyes the dark brown of bittersweet chocolate. Tousled black hair. Finely drawn features. Perfect build. All in all, like someone out of Greek mythology. My vote would be Narcissus because, as far as I could tell, Seth didn’t love anyone but himself. And even that was up for debate.

  “Hey, Seth,” I said mildly. “Isn’t there a pool with your reflection somewhere, calling your name?”

  He looked at me without blinking. Kind of like a shark.

  “You’re doing ‘Blue Steel,’ right? Or wait, is that ‘La Tigre’?”

  Not a muscle twitched. Either he’d never seen Zoolander, or didn’t think it was funny. Proof that there are some personalities that can’t be saved by being really really really good looking.

  “Stop wasting everyone’s time,” he snapped. “Either shit or get off the pot.”

  “Nice, Seth,” Drift muttered. “Real nice.”

  “Why?” I smiled sweetly at Seth from my perch above. “You so full of shit you can’t wait your turn?”

  A muscle twitched in his jaw.

  “Sometime this century, Lee.”

  I couldn’t call Seth’s methods “tough love
” because I’m pretty sure he hates me. He didn’t used to be such a total dick. For the last six months, though, he’d treated me like something unpleasant he’d found on the bottom of his shoe. I responded by trying to gain his approval. At most it got me the occasional grudging “that didn’t suck.” You’d have thought I’d have learned better by now, but it’s hard to break the habits of a lifetime.

  Taking a deep breath, I jumped before I could change my mind.

  Whump.

  Dead center of the airbag for a perfect deadfall.

  Woo-hoo! Satisfied, I grinned up at Seth, who turned his back on me without a word and walked away. I deflated like a cheap air mattress.

  A hand shoved itself in front of me.

  “Good job, Lee.”

  I looked up to see Drift giving me a sympathetic grin. Part of me wanted to slap his hand away, prove I didn’t need anyone’s approval, but it would have been a total bitch move—not to mention a lie of the devil.

  I hated the fact that one accident, one, could smash my self-confidence, but there it was. And if I wanted to get back to work, out from under Sean’s roof and away from Seth’s ever-present disapproval, I needed to accept that fact—along with whatever positive reinforcement was offered.

  So I grabbed Drift’s hand, practically flying off the airbag when he gave a sharp tug. The dude had biceps the size of Africa.

  “Thanks.”

  “Thank you for not biting my head off,” Drift grinned. “Gotta say, bouncing off buildings and sidewalks mellowed you out a little.”

  “Cheepcheepcheep!”

  Stunt-puppy Randy popped up behind me, flapping his arms in what was supposed to be an impression of a chicken, but only if the chicken had epilepsy. I gave him an elbow to the solar plexus without even thinking. He doubled over with a satisfying grunt.

  “Or not,” Drift said without missing a beat.

  I shrugged. “My near death experience just taught me to differentiate between people like you and Tater—” I gave them both a nod. “—and assholes.”

  Randy looked hurt and angry at the same time.

  “What’s your damage, Lee? Can’t you take a joke?”

  I sighed. “Y’know, Squid, you don’t get to play that ‘get out of jail free’ card with me. The whole ‘can’t you take a joke’ defense doesn’t play here when you’re being a total douche.”

  Randy’s sullen pout would have done justice to any five-year-old with low blood sugar.

  “Jeez,” he muttered. “That time of the month, or what?”

  Really?

  You didn’t get into the Katz Ranch without an invitation, or a recommendation from someone who was already part of the inner circle, so Randy had to have something going for him. Apparently that didn’t include a good survival instinct. Before I could rip him a new one, though, Tater cleared his throat, Drift by his side.

  “May we?”

  I nodded and gave a little one-handed wave. “Please do.”

  Drift walked up to Randy until they stood nose to nose. More like Randy’s nose to Drift’s chest, with Tater looming behind. Randy isn’t that short, but both Tater and Drift are tall. Drift is very tall. He smiled pleasantly.

  “You ever been injured doing a gag?”

  Randy’s gaze shifted uneasily. “Uh, I took a fall off a dirt bike doubling Paul Loggia in Gila Monster Island. That banged up my knee pretty good.”

  “So how long did it take you to get back in the saddle?” This was Tater.

  “Uh, I iced my knee and we did another take a couple hours later.”

  “Right.”

  That one neutral syllable made Randy flinch. He didn’t, however, turn and run. Points at least for a small helping of cajones.

  “So,” Tater continued, “Lee took a four-story high fall and, because someone didn’t do his or her job, she nearly died. Now she has a little bit of an issue with the high falls, and you think it’s okay to make fun of her, even though you’ve been in the business for, oh, two years now, and she’s been doing stunts since she was twelve?” His voice never changed from that pleasant, even tone, yet Randy started cringing like a whipped dog.

  “Um—”

  Drift tapped Randy gently on the forehead with his index finger.

  “Exactly,” he said. “Now next time you open your yap to mouth off, Tater and I are gonna rip your head off and shit down your neck. That’s a lot of shit. Got it?”

  Randy gulped and nodded, his face an interesting shade of green not normally found on humans.

  “Good.” Tater slapped Randy on the back and then gave me a smile. “You gonna teach these jerks how to fight?”

  I grinned at him. “Oh, yeah.”

  I felt my confidence returning. Honestly, I can do just about anything that’s tossed my way, but my real specialty is working with weapons. According to Sean, I’d taken to it “like a duckling to water.”

  Sean does love his clichés.

  In this case, though, the cliché was accurate. I loved swords, sticks, quarterstaffs, and axes. Anything with an edge. Anything that can be used in a close-up fight, one on one or in a melee. If it involves chopping, cutting, thrusting, parrying, whacking, you name it, I’m all over it and I’m damned good at it.

  Stunts aren’t just about the mechanics of the moves, although you have to get those down first. Whether you’re doubling someone, or doing a background fight, you also need to be able to sell the fight as real. Not everyone can do that, but I can.

  I love teaching it, as well. So I turned to Randy.

  This was gonna be really fun.

  “You ready to learn how to swing something other than your dick?” He nodded uncertainly. “Then grab a broadsword and get your ass over behind the barn.”

  * * *

  Ever wonder what a half-dozen grown men would do if you handed them broadswords?

  What they don’t do is wait for instructions.

  One or two start tossing the swords from hand to hand, doing fancy figure eights and posturing because they’ve seen Conan too many times. Others chase each other around doing “up downs,” thwacking away and reciting movie lines.

  “I am the master now.”

  “Welcome to Sherwood.”

  Or my personal fave—especially when coupled with a friggin’ broadsword, which is totally the wrong weapon—

  “I am Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die.”

  Call me sexist, but women are generally more focused on training than showboating, and so much easier to deal with when I haven’t had enough coffee. Although honestly, some days there’s not enough caffeine in the world.

  “You will drown in lakes of blood!” Randy intoned, striking what I’m sure he thought was a fearsome pose. I hid a smile.

  It’s fun time, crew.

  I executed a diving forward roll on the dusty ground, snatched up my broadsword and sprung to my feet all in one smooth movement. This, at least, I could do without fear or hesitation—not that Seth would give me any credit. If it wasn’t from an altitude of twenty feet or more, it didn’t count.

  It did, however, get the attention of my students. My tank top must’ve given a flash of my bra. Randy looked like the Tex Avery cartoon wolf, with his eyes popping out of their sockets.

  Squid.

  “Okay, kids, pair up and let’s get going!” I nodded to Tater. “If you’d be so kind?”

  He grinned. “My pleasure.”

  Tater always helped me demonstrate the basics. Some of the newbies assumed that meant he was the real instructor, and I was just his demo dummy. There’s something about the stunt field that attracts a higher level of testosterone. But that assumption rarely made it past the first session.

  This round, however, my only problem child was Randy, and even he was on his best behavior after his Come-to-Jesus talk with Drift and Tater. To give him credit, when he wasn’t being a jerk he was eager to learn, quick to pick things up, and even a little cute in a puppy-wants-approval kind of way.
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br />   Is it wrong that I still wanted to smack his nose with a rolled up newspaper?

  We launched into a basic cut-and-parry drill, and he actually managed to hold his own. I was just beginning to be impressed when he stopped, mid-cut, forcing me to bring myself up short or do some damage. He stared over my shoulder, and I turned to see what had him gaping.

  Oh, for crying out loud… Seth was ascending the ladder, headed to the top platform, gaining sixty feet in the time it took most people to climb twenty.

  “How does he do that?” Randy stared with admiration bordering on hero worship.

  I shrugged. “Eh, he’s part monkey.” Hell, even I couldn’t blame Randy for being star struck—it was impossible to remain unimpressed. But I knew full well Seth was doing it to show me up.

  Well done, asshole.

  When he reached the top, he threw a quick glance in my direction. Making sure I saw him. I rolled my eyes and looked away, but only for a moment. Because no matter how much he irritated me, I still loved watching him do what he did best.

  Without hesitation Seth launched himself from the platform, arms outstretched like a high diver, flipping his body midair. It looked as though the air itself thickened to slow his descent as he fell—

  —and nearly collided with Sean, who soared down in front of him out of nowhere, arms outstretched to either side slightly behind him, a huge grin on his face. He saw me, waved, then twisted in mid-air and swooped back out of sight as Seth’s fall accelerated to normal speed. He hit the airbag without his usual grace.

  Everyone burst into laughter as Seth launched himself after his father, a vague blur visible around his shoulders. I turned away to hide my own amusement, knowing this would end with the two of them wrestling mid-air until one of them knocked the other out of the sky.

  See, there’s a reason training at the Ranch is strictly by invitation only. This world is filled with supernatural beings, and very few people know about them. I know, but I’m not one of them.

  Sean and Seth, on the other hand, totally are.