The Spawn of Lilith Read online

  CHAPTER THREE

  “The Katz family has conquered gravity.”

  —The Charleston Post Herald

  “Angels couldn’t fly through the air with the ease and grace of the Katz boys.”

  —The San Luis Chronicle

  The Katz heritage goes back to the Big Tent. Flying-trapeze artists known for their daring, effortless aerial stunts.

  “The Katz family takes aerial acrobatics to new heights, seemingly transcending the laws of physics with their show. It’s difficult to tell if they’re brave, or simply insane.”

  —Melbourne Journal

  Sean and Seth aren’t insane. They are, however, part nephilim, which means they’ve got enough angel in their DNA to allow for things like—well, not flying, exactly, at least not like Superman, but they can manipulate air currents. They ride them, like surfers ride waves.

  It’s amazing to watch, and if ever there were times I regretted not being a Katz by blood, it was when I watched any of them ride the wind, catching one current after the other, performing acrobatics I could only dream of doing. When I was little—okay, in my teens—I used to play with the lyrics to “The Man on the Flying Trapeze.”

  They fly through the air with the greatest of ease

  Those hunky stunt men on—

  Hey, where’s their trapeze?

  It never failed to crack Sean up, or piss Seth off. I still couldn’t decide which reaction pleased me more. Back then, though, even if I knew I couldn’t keep up with them—or with any of the more advanced stunt players—I’d enjoyed trying. It was a challenge, and I’d constantly try to up my game and see how close I could get without killing myself.

  Now I’d figured out the answer, thanks to whoever screwed up my airbag.

  Fuck it. Time to get back to work, running herd on my swashbucklers in training. Just as I turned, though, Seth and Sean plummeted from the sky in a tangle of arms and legs, hitting the ground with an impact I could feel even from that distance. I winced involuntarily, but Sean immediately clambered to his feet and tapped his watch.

  “Time, folks!” he shouted so all could hear. Morning playtime was over. The guys grumbled in disappointment, but began filing toward the big canvas bag where they’d dump their swords.

  “Make sure you clean off the blades, kids!” I grabbed a rag, sprayed it with WD-40, wiped my sword, and put it in the bag.

  “Hey, Lee?”

  I looked up to see Randy, broadsword still clutched in both hands as he shuffled his feet in the dirt. He tried to keep his gaze on my face, but kept drifting almost involuntarily back to my boobs.

  “Yeah?” I said brusquely.

  “I, uh, I’m really sorry for being such an asshole before.”

  I stared at him for a few seconds, still wanting to smack him.

  “Seriously,” he continued. “And not just because Drift and Tater threatened to shit down my neck. You’re a kick-ass stuntwoman, and you rock with the sword stuff.”

  Well, hell.

  I mentally tossed away my rolled-up newspaper.

  “So, are we okay?” He shifted his sword to one hand and held out the other. I gave a mental sigh and shook it. He didn’t even try and do the hand-crush that a lot of macho guys do.

  Dammit, more points in his favor. Even if he still had trouble keeping his gaze north of the border.

  “Yeah,” I said, “we’re okay.”

  “Great!” Randy beamed at me, still holding my hand. “That’s just great.”

  “Okay then.”

  I waited for him to let go. He didn’t.

  “You should clean off your sword now,” I said gently.

  “Oh! Yeah.” Randy gave an embarrassed laugh, released my hand, and grabbed the WD-40.

  I left him to it and went inside to take a much-needed bathroom break.

  * * *

  When I finished with the necessaries, I took a few moments to splash some cold water on my cheeks and wipe off some of the accumulated dust and sweat streaking my face, arms, and chest. Only then did I risk peering into the mirror.

  False modesty aside, I have a nice face. Strong cheekbones, full lips, straight nose, and big eyes so dark a blue they almost look black in certain light. Long, thick mane of naturally wavy hair, a shade somewhere between bittersweet cocoa and mahogany. The kind of looks that made it difficult to pin me down to any particular ethnicity. I’ve stunt doubled everything from Native American to Middle Eastern to Indian to Caucasian.

  What wasn’t so nice, though, was the scar creeping out from the hairline on my right temple, so I daubed a little bit of coconut oil on it. It had faded some since the accident, but I wanted it gone. I had a few others, as well, on my arms and legs for instance, and a real whopper on the back of my neck consisting of squiggles of raised skin that looked like I’d been branded. None of those bothered me, though—I didn’t mind a few souvenirs of my chosen profession.

  But not on the face.

  At least not yet. Maybe when I was sixty, didn’t care so much what I looked like, and could sit around bragging about all the close calls.

  I took a quick look at my backside and sighed. Since the accident I’d dropped about ten pounds, but I still had more curves than your average Hollywood actress. I’d never been a size two or even a four. Hell, I hadn’t been a size six since seventh grade, but before that damn fall, I’d been really fit. I wanted to get back into shape.

  Shrugging, I unstrapped a neoprene pouch from around my wrist. It was a variation on the waterproof key pouches available at surf shops, the type with Velcro fasteners. Some fastened around the ankle or wrist, some around the waist. I had several with different strap lengths and switched them out depending on the circumstances and my wardrobe.

  Opening the pouch, I pulled out a round gold amulet on a leather cord and slipped it around my neck. It had belonged to my mother and had survived the car crash when she hadn’t. I’d worn it every day since Sean had given it to me on my eighth birthday. I wore it when I showered and when I slept. If I couldn’t wear it when I was working, it went into a pocket or pouch strapped somewhere on my body.

  As a kid I’d believed that her spirit or essence—or whatever you want to call the soul—went into that amulet. Sean had encouraged that belief to help me deal with not only the death of my parents, but with life as I’d known it.

  Did I still believe that?

  Yeah, maybe.

  The gold disc bore an engraved design of what looked like three crosses joined at their base, two of them horizontal with the third rising vertically. From that extended a curved line like half of the infinity symbol, or maybe a lowercase letter “h.” The outer ends of the crosses each flared like three quarters of the classic German iron cross.

  I didn’t know if the material was gold, bronze, or brass. I also had no idea what the design was supposed to represent. For all I knew it said “cheap shit” in Mandarin, or something equally silly. I didn’t really care, though I liked to think it brought me luck. Kind of a stretch, considering Mom had died while wearing it.

  On the other hand, I’d left it in my dressing room the day I took the nearly fatal fall. So who the hell knew?

  Loud male voices and footsteps coming up the hall announced that my quiet time was at an end, even before the doorknob started turning back and forth.

  I knew better and should have gone into the private bathroom off of my room, but I’d been in too much of a hurry.

  The door rattled in its frame.

  Good thing I’d locked it.

  “Anyone in there?”

  “No,” I called back. “The door always locks itself. This is the towel rack speaking.”

  “Lee?”

  I opened the door to reveal a very antsy Drift, shifting from one foot to the other.

  “Ever heard of knocking?” I said loudly as he pushed past me into the bathroom. The door shut in my face. “Just remember to light a match this time,” I shouted at the closed door.

  With a grimace I h
eaded toward the kitchen for a much-needed shot of something caffeinated. I hadn’t been sleeping well lately, so maybe the lack of coffee in my system explained why I was so damned cranky. You’d think I’d be used to the whole lack-of-privacy thing by now.

  I’d tried keeping a diary, one of those fancy ones with a little padlock. Seth had just picked it with a paperclip, carved a little hollow in the pages, and left a tarantula inside for me to find. A live one. I’d named the furry little guy Klendathu and kept him as a pet until he died a few years later. I’d insisted on holding a funeral service complete with eulogy for the little dude. At least this is what Sean tells me.

  See, my memory’s been kind of wonky since the accident. I think of it as selectively weird. Some of the strangest things come back to me, but wide swaths of my past have been virtually washed from my brain.

  Things I remember?

  I remember some of the stunt work I’ve done over the years. Sean and I went over my resume after the accident, talking about each one, bringing up anecdotes that helped bring back the experiences. Drift and Tater would also chime in on past jobs, as would Seth. According to Drift and Tater, I was awesome. According to Seth, it had only been a matter of time before I bounced off the side of a building. I could have done without Seth’s commentary.

  Another weirdly clear memory?

  Sean throwing epic birthday parties for Seth and me at the Ranch. Themed parties, like superheroes, X-Men, and Star Wars. At eight I’d made a mean little Princess Leia, cinnamon-bun hairstyle and all, and Seth had made a respectable Han Solo for a ten-year-old. He’d still bossed me around, even back then.

  I also had no trouble remembering random scenes and lines from movies and television shows, including ones that were way before my time. That made more sense, considering I’d spent a large portion of the last six months doing nothing but watching movies and shows from Sean’s huge collection of DVDs, or on the multitude of streaming channels available. We had a huge plasma screen TV in the living room and a very comfy couch.

  What didn’t make any sense at all, however, is why any of these seemingly unimportant things got crystal-clear status in my poor damaged brain, when I couldn’t even remember the sound of my mother’s voice.

  I don’t remember missing my parents. In fact, I barely remember them at all. Their faces remain anonymous blurs. Now and then I’d look at the photo album Sean snagged after they’d died—one of those print-your-own deals Mom and Dad had done—and it was like looking at strangers.

  Kinda sucks, but the doctors swore it would all come back to me… eventually.

  Maybe.

  Every now and then, though, something jiggled a neuron or synapse or whatever they’re called. Sean and I would be talking, or a random sound or smell triggered something in my brain, and images appeared. With each image usually came a snippet of memory, playing out like a movie reel. Sometimes full-on color with sound, other times like an old silent film in black and white.

  At first I tried to write down the details. I carried a notebook with me and kept one by my bed so I could record any dreams that seemed relevant. My handwriting, however, looked like ancient hieroglyphics, so my iPhone’s Notes function became my new best friend.

  Although I still don’t know what the hell “alpha new wave porker” is supposed to mean. One of the risks of using voice-recognition software at 3 A.M. Siri’s ways could be mysterious.

  * * *

  The kitchen gleamed, all cream-colored cabinets and walls, polished faux light hardwood floors, and amber-flecked recycled glass countertops. Seth took cleanliness very seriously, so despite the near constant stream of sweaty stunt players, the counters always sparkled and the floors shone. Sometimes the shine came from stacks of beer bottles and cans waiting to be recycled, but still, the overall clean factor was impressive.

  Copper pots and utensils hung from hooks on the center block, and high-tech coffee machines took up the counter along one long wall. We’re talking a Keurig, a Nespresso, and a scary-looking espresso maker that really belonged in an Italian café. There was also a Mister Coffee, and I’m pretty sure at least two French presses were squirreled away in a cupboard.

  If I ever fail as a stuntwoman, I could nail a career as a barista. Then I frowned, pushed the thought from my mind, and made myself a quick double cappuccino with the Nespresso machine.

  Grabbing an apple and a few packets of string cheese, I went out onto the porch, which ran all the way around the Craftsman-style ranch house. Footsteps loud on the floorboards, I went directly to the west-facing side of the house with its view of the Santa Monica mountains, and where my favorite creaky wooden rocking chair lived. The overstuffed cushions had a permanent Lee-shaped indent in them.

  I sat down, my contented sigh echoed by the creak of the chair. Rocking back and forth, I balanced the apple and cheese on my lap while sipping the hot cappuccino, its rich fragrance mingling with the scent of eucalyptus. It tasted great despite the heat of the day. It had to be in the upper 80s, but a slight breeze blew down from the mountains, just enough to cool things off a bit.

  From where I sat, there was a clear view of the dirt road below and the long, tree-lined drive curving up before vanishing around the side of the house. I could see everyone coming and going, and for some reason, that made me feel secure. Maybe I’d seen too many spy movies.

  Randy left in his spiffy red Dodge Challenger, doing its best imitation of a ’70s Mustang, tires kicking up dust as he hit the accelerator, taking the turn onto the paved road way too fast and nearly spinning out. He reminded me of all the obnoxious boys I’d known in school—the type who showed their interest by acting like assholes.

  It hadn’t worked on me back in the day, either.

  I let my gaze wander up to the DuShane mansion, a sprawling Gothic horror at the peak of the nearest mountain. It was one of those weird, secluded places with a Hollywood history. It’d been built by an eccentric 1920s film producer who’d thrown wild debaucheries during his heyday, then spent his last years hiding behind locked gates before dying under questionable circumstances.

  Subsequent owners had come and gone. Supposedly more than one had met his or her untimely end there. The deaths weren’t as numerous or horrific as, say, the ones in House on Haunted Hill or The Grudge, but its reputation persisted. The house fascinated me, and I’d sworn to explore it someday, but that day had yet to come.

  “How you holding up, kiddo?”

  I jumped, sloshing hot cappuccino onto one leg.

  “Motherfu—”

  I stopped myself when I saw who’d snuck up on me. Sean didn’t deal well with the whole swearing thing. So I did my best to ignore the heat soaking into my skin and smiled, albeit through gritted teeth.

  “Jeez, Sean, some warning would be nice.”

  Sean looked sheepish. “Sorry, kid.”

  He sat down in the chair across from me. Looked down at his knees, then out across the land spotted with scrub brush and sage, stretching back toward the base of the mountains. I watched him, my shoulders tightening.

  “What’s up?”

  “What do you mean?”

  I sighed. “Sean, how many years have I known you? You’re not telling me something. What is it? Like, did the doctors only give me a year to live?”

  Sean laughed at that. Full, uninhibited, and genuine laughter, and the tension in my shoulders drained away.

  “You’re fine, baby girl.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Seriously.”

  We creaked back and forth in companionable silence for a few minutes, watching cars leave the Ranch as other vehicles arrived. I munched on my apple and string cheese.

  “So,” I finally said after swallowing the last bite of cheese. “Are you ever gonna put me on a film again?”

  Sean rocked for a few more beats, then looked at me.

  “Yeah.”

  “So… when?”

  “As soon as you’re okay on the falls again.”

 
I nodded. I’d known this was the case, but I’d needed to hear Sean say so before really believing it.

  “What if—” I took a deep breath. “What if I can’t get over it?”

  There. I’d said it.

  What if I couldn’t get over it? What if my accident had permanently screwed with my ability to take a fall, whether it was six feet or sixty? I’d spent most of my life jumping off of buildings and things like that. It’s not like I never thought about the danger when I did it, but the danger never stopped me. Now I couldn’t see past it. Suddenly I had this big hole in my life, and I didn’t know what to fill it with.

  Sean stopped rocking, leaned forward, and took one of my hands, looking at me with those sky-blue eyes.

  “Lee, we’re the Katz Stunt Crew. We’re known for our high falls and aerial work. When people hire us, there are certain expectations that come with the package. You know that, right?”

  “Right. So if I can’t do falls, I’m no good to you?”

  Sean looked uncomfortable. “I wouldn’t exactly say it like that.”

  I had to ask. “Is it Seth? Because I’d think he’d be glad to have me working, and out of the house again.”

  Sean stopped rocking and looked at me.

  “Lee, when you got hurt, Seth nearly lost his mind, he was so worried about you. If he’s hard on you now, it’s because he doesn’t want you to get hurt again. He wants to make sure you can handle whatever comes your way.”

  Oh, how I wished I could believe him. It would’ve made me a lot happier if I thought Seth actually cared about me. As far as I could tell, however, he’d have been content if I’d just died on Vampshee.

  My doubt must have shown on my face.

  “Honestly, Lee,” Sean said, shaking his head, “both Seth and I would rather have you at home anyway. Give you a break from those guys you kept hooking up with.” He gave a little laugh. “That last one was nothing but trouble, am I right?”

  I just looked at him.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t remember a lot of stuff. Y’know?”

  Sean had the good grace to look embarrassed.

  “Sorry,” he said. “I keep forgetting.”