by Max Hudson
“What’s going on?” he asked.
The crew member who’d been knocking shrugged his shoulders. “No one’s seen him this morning. We thought, maybe, he’d just had a late night and overslept.”
“Idiot,” Jared hissed, and pushed the man out of the way. “August Jimson’s never overslept in his life.” He knocked himself as the others stood behind him and watched. “August?” he said, raising his voice at the door. There was no answer or any sound at all from the other side, so Jared reached down and tried the door handle. He shouldn’t have been able to open it without a key card, but he felt it give, and realized that it had been left open, ever so slightly, so that it hadn’t latched. Blood began to pump wildly through his veins, and he slowly opened the door and peeked into the room.
“August?” he repeated, his voice quiet. There was still no answer, but the lights were on by the bed. His hesitancy disappeared as he quickly moved into the room. It was clear no one was there, so he stepped into the bathroom. August wasn’t there either. He stepped back out, glancing at the bed they’d shared the night before. One side of the covers had been thrown back, and the clothes August had shed when they’d made love were gone. It looked like the man had gone somewhere, but to his confusion, the director’s shoes were still sitting by the door.
“Where are you, August?” he mumbled to himself. The rest of the cast and crew began to creep through the door, their curiosity getting the best of them. Jared turned to shoo them back into the hall, and find out what they might know, when he noticed a slip of paper on the bedside table. Thinking it might be a note from August, he grabbed it up, and read over it. It only took a moment to realize that the note was from someone else.
“You should have heeded my warnings,” Jared quickly read out loud. “Shut down the production or you’ll never see him again.” He shoved the note in his pocket and ran back out into the hall, closing the door behind him so no one else could get in.
“What’s going on?” Margaret demanded, snatching his arm before he could make it back to his own room. “Where’s August?”
“He’s gone,” Jared answered impatiently.
“What do you mean, gone?”
There were similar mutterings throughout the group, and Jared held up his hands to quiet them. “Look, it’s a really long story I don’t have time to tell right now. Just...go back to your rooms and wait while I figure this out, all right?”
With the cast and crew reluctantly dispatched, Jared quickly went back into his own room, and pulled a laptop out of one of his suitcases. Then he sat it on the table, started it up, and dialed Jameson’s number for a video call. When the man’s face appeared in on his screen, looking unhappy, Jared didn’t care. He paced, angrily, in front of the monitor.
“Do you have any idea what time it is here? I was just about to get to bed,” Jameson complained.
“I don’t care. August is missing.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Missing, as in gone, as in someone took him.” When Jameson only shook his head in confusion, Jared stopped his angry pacing, ripped the note from his pocket, and held it up to the monitor. “He warned you, multiple times, I know he did. He knew something dangerous was going on, and you brushed him off. Now, he’s gone.”
“He’s been kidnapped?” Jameson said in surprise.
“Have you been listening!”
“All right, all right. Do you have any idea who’s behind this?”
“No,” Jared replied, dejected. “We’ve been trying to figure this out for weeks.”
“What happened to your face?” Jameson suddenly asked.
Jared sighed. “Probably the same thing that happened to August. I think someone tried to shoot me last night. They missed, hit a tree instead...splinters,” he finished, growing impatient. The shocked look on the producer’s face only made him feel more annoyed. “You didn’t really think all these accidents were coincidence, did you?”
“Well, yes, accidents happen all the time on set.”
“Well, I don’t think August just up and walked out, and left a fake kidnapping note behind. Doesn’t really seem his style.”
“So, what are we going to do about it?”
“Oh, I don’t expect you to do anything about it,” Jared growled in reply. “I’ll figure this out. You could try calling in some police, maybe, and officially shut down production. Maybe this psychopath will let August go when he hears we’ve finally paid attention to him.”
With that, Jared slammed his laptop shut, and sank down onto the bed. He held his head in his hands, rubbing his cheeks as he tried to figure out what to do. After a few minutes, he called up the hotel manager, telling her what had happened and that they needed to keep everyone out of August’s room. To his surprise, she already knew, and informed him that the police were on their way.
“At least Jameson’s good for something,” he quipped, mirthlessly. While he waited for the police, and what would probably be hours of questions, he thought back to what August had said. He’d recognized someone on the plane that shouldn’t have been there. Jared had been there too, though. Was it possible he’d seen something but hadn’t realized it in the chaos of trying to get August to the restroom? He thought back, racking his brain. The person was, apparently, in the seat next to the restroom. No matter how hard he tried, though, he couldn’t remember looking in that direction while they were walking down the aisle. He’d been too focused on August, and worrying about whether he was going to be all right.
After a while, he yelled out in frustration, and stood up to pace the room some more.
It turned out that he’d been right, and spent most of the day fielding questions from the Bucharest police. It was a long, strange story, and he ended up telling it a dozen times. At first, no one really believed him, and then didn’t seem to have a high opinion of what actors said. When he’d finally explained it all a few times, and showed them the note, they began to believe him, and finally went about putting a plan into action. Mostly, they found it strange that there’d been no ransom, but Jared was firmly convinced that this was about the production, not money.
When they finally let him go, he left the meeting room the police were using as a makeshift base of operations and headed to the bar.
“Bad day?” the bartender asked, knowing that the man was an American movie star in Romania to make a movie.
“You could say that,” Jared answered with an exhausted snort.
“They say your director has gone missing,” the man said as he poured a drink.
Jared slid the glass over, and picked it up, looking it over instead of drinking it. “He’s not just my director,” he finally choked out, and then downed the drink in one swallow.
“Ah, I see,” the bartender said, his voice full of sympathy. “You want another then?”
Jared thought about it for a moment, and then shook his head. “Actually, no. I have something I have to do.” With that, he thanked the man, and rushed up to his room. Realization had dawned on him, making him feel like an idiot for not seeing it before. August may not have remembered who was sitting on the plane, and he may not have seen the person, but there were ways to figure out who was on the flight.
“Flight manifest, Jared, you idiot!” he growled, and then hit himself in the forehead. Normally, that kind of thing wouldn’t be public knowledge, but the actor had always had his own ways of getting whatever information he wanted. It had helped him through life for years, knowing which parts to take, which agents were representing who, and so on. Between that and a little witchcraft, Jared had made a calculated rise in Hollywood. Though, he was starting to doubt the witchcraft had really had anything to do with it. He’d also left that part out in his discussions with the Bucharest police.
It was very doubtful that this person had gone through all the trouble it would take to travel under an alias, so Jared called up the airline, and began to schmooze. It had been a long day already, and he wasn’t exactly on top
form, but after an hour or so on the phone, he finally managed to find someone who knew who he was, believed his story, and was a big enough fan to give him access to the passenger manifest for his flight. After thanking them, and promising to send autographs and tickets to his next premiere, Jared hung up and accessed the records on his laptop.
He quickly went through the seat assignments, matching them to the blueprints of the cabin layout for the plane. As he did so, one name jumped out at him, and he quickly leaned back in his chair with a gasp.
“Leif Svensson,” he whispered. “You wily bastard.”
***
August’s head felt like it was under water. He could hear a voice, but it was coming out...wrong. It sounded like someone gurgling, and he would have laughed if his head hadn’t hurt so much. He blinked a few times, and then suddenly, a bright light came on in his face. It sent a stabbing pain shooting through his head, and he was fully conscious in an instant. He turned his head away from the light with a groan of pain and opened his eyes.
“Where am I?” he croaked out. It was more of a rhetorical question, a statement of the fact that he didn’t know. He wasn’t really expecting an answer.
“You don’t really think I’m going to tell you that, do you?” he heard the gurgling voice say. It was no longer gurgling though, but deep and menacing instead.
August turned his head toward the voice, and his mouth dropped open in shock...again. “Svensson!” he exclaimed, his voice sounding more like scolding than surprise or fear. “What in the world are you doing?”
“Kidnapping you, of course.” The man was tall, and well built, about the same age as August. The man was quite intimidating, and August could feel his hatred as he came closer.
Like him, Leif Svensson was a Hollywood director, and it didn’t take much imagination to figure out what his grievance might be. It was only then that August realized his was tied to a chair, his hands bound behind him. He tried to look around to get his bearings, but the light in his face was too bright, and he was having trouble tearing his eyes away from the large man approaching him.
“But why?” he asked nervously, dreading that he knew the answer.
“This was supposed to be my project,” the man answered, growling grotesquely. “This was going to be my triumph.”
“Jameson insisted I was his first choice,” August complained, vanity suddenly overriding the fear he was feeling. He stuck out his bottom lip, refusing to believe the psychotic director, even though he knew something like this was probable, had known there was something wrong with Svensson being on their plane.
“Please, you know better than to trust Jameson. He let the project go on even though you knew the production was in danger, didn’t he?”
August’s mouth opened in protest, but he didn’t know what to say. Svensson was right; if Jameson had disregarded his protests and everyone’s safety, it wasn’t a stretch to think he could be lying about anything. He flinched as the big man stepped even closer and leaned down into his face.
“I helped put this project together! Why do you think everything was so last minute? It was because I’d already done the planning, all Jameson had to do was go by my notes, my storyboards.”
“I...” August started to point out that he’d made changes, done his own work, but then though better of it. “I had no idea.”
“Of course, you didn’t! It was all kept very hush hush.”
“So...why are you taking it out on me?” August asked, trying very hard, and failing, not to whine.
“Ah, well, yes...sorry about that. I’m afraid you’re the one who replaced me, after all. Not technically your fault, but I certainly can’t let you have the glory that should have been mine.”
August gulped. “So, what are you going to do?” The horrifying smile he received in reply made the hairs on the back of August’s neck stand up. He smiled nervously in return, a small squeak leaving his lips, and then his felt a sharp pinch in his neck, and the world went black again.
Chapter Ten
“What do you mean you can’t give me that information? This is an emergency!” Back at the hotel, Jared had spent the last few hours trying to track down where Svensson had gone after getting off the plane. Most of the hotels had been cooperative, but he hadn’t been able to trace the man anywhere. From there, he’d started with the cab companies, who were less than enthusiastic, or simply had no idea the names of their passengers.
Jared slammed the hotel phone onto its receiver, only deciding at the last minute not to throw it across the room. He took a couple of deep breaths, close to tears in his frustration, and tried to figure out what to do next. Should he tell the police what he’d found? It was their country, and they’d have access to resources he didn’t. Then again, they’d probably cut him out of the investigation, and he wouldn’t know August’s fate until it was all over. He growled and slammed his fists down on the table.
Then he remembered he had one more source, so he called Jameson back, time difference be damned. It took a while for the man to pick up, and by then, Jared was annoyed beyond caring about anything.
“Why would Leif Svensson be in Bucharest?” he demanded as soon as Jameson picked up.
“What?” the producer stuttered, rubbing his sleepy eyes.
“Svensson, the director. He was on our flight. Why?” Jared shouted.
This got Jameson’s attention, and his eyes widened with fear and realization. “I...well...” he stuttered.
Jared shook his head. “You promised this project to him, didn’t you?” When Jameson hesitated again, he shouted, “Didn’t you?”
“Actually, he helped put the project together, was the lead, but he got too...outrageous. He wanted to spend way more than the budget would allow, film everything on location, and he was just...out of his mind.”
“So, what, you just fired him, and quietly pretended like he had nothing to do with it?”
“I had no choice!”
Jared chuckled mirthlessly. “Well, apparently the man didn’t just go quietly into the night.”
“Yes, I can see that now.”
“So, where is he?” the actor demanded. “I’ve checked cab companies, every hotel in Bucharest. No one’s seen him. Where else would he have gone?”
Jameson thought for a moment, feeling Jared’s angry, expectant stare even through the monitor. Then he held up a finger. “There’s a club.”
“He’s out dancing?” Jared said in disbelief, picturing the tall, mountain of a man trying to bust a move on the dance floor.
“No. There’s a basement section where...other things happen.”
The statement made goose bumps come up on Jared’s arms. “What kind of things.”
“You probably won’t believe me, but witchcraft.”
The actor’s eyes widened. “Witch—”
“—craft?” August repeated in disbelief. “You mean, people perform rituals down here?” He wasn’t sure how long he’d been out, but when he’d woken up, it had been to the sound of bass beats through the floor above them, and the other director chanting something to himself.
Svensson gave him a confused look. It wasn’t really the reaction he’d been going for. He’d expected a little disbelief in the craft itself, maybe even some fear of what was going on, not incredulousness at the location he’d chosen to do it.
“This meeting place was here before the club,” he said as if it was supposed to be impressive. Most of the employees are part of the coven.
August scoffed. Covens. “I don’t really go in for that sort of thing myself. Too many differing ideas, too many cooks in the kitchen so to speak. And then there’s the business of picking a leader, which half the people in the coven secretly despise.”
As August went on, Svensson grew more and more impatient. “Enough!” he finally shouted, startling the little man.
“Well, how rude.”
“Are you telling me you’re a practitioner of the craft too?” Svensson said, as if it were
the most unholy thing in the world.
“I dabble. I knew a very skilled woman once. She taught me everything she knew. Her name was Madame L’Begnaud.”
Svensson gasped, and then sank into a spare chair. The cushion deflated, and the displaced air caused one of the candles to go out inside the magical circle he’d made. “She taught me too,” he said, sounding much like the deflated cushion.
***
Back at the hotel, Jared was staring into the computer screen, a mere inch or two away so that his face filled the monitor on Jameson’s side. His teeth were grit, and his lips stretched in what looked a bit like a demonic grin. “Where is this club?” he demanded.
After Jameson told him, and the actor had backed away to grab up a few things, he added, “Shouldn’t we tell the police?”
“Yes, but I’m going too. In fact, tell them everything. Maybe they’ll be more willing to believe it coming from you.” With that, Jared slammed the laptop shut again, and took off out of his room.
Luckily, the club wasn’t far or tough to get to. He simply stepped out of the hotel, grabbed a cab, and was there in ten minutes. It looked more like the problem was going to be getting in the club and actually finding August. From the looks of it, it was Bucharest’s most popular night club, and then line stretched all the way down the block. He didn’t have time to wait at the back though, his mind playing scenes of all the horrible things Svensson might be doing to August. So, he put on his game face, flashed everyone his award-winning smile, and simply strolled to the front of the line.
There were a few noises of complaint at first, but then people started to recognize him, and the complaints turned to murmurs of disbelief and excitement. Normally, he might mingle a bit, but tonight he ignored them, and walked right up to the man at the door.
“Mister Hodgens!” exclaimed, managing to sound both surprised and nervous, which was slightly amusing for a man of his extreme size.
Jared took in the man’s biceps, which looked bigger around than his thighs, and then looked him in the eye, his smile never wavering. “Mind if I go in?” He pulled out his wallet, for good measure, though he doubted he’d need it.