by Dana Fredsti
“See?” Sean continued. “I told you time would make the difference.”
So far so good. “But it means I’ll be out of town same time you’re working on Spasm, so someone else is gonna have to deal with training here.”
“We’ll figure it out,” he answered with a wave of one hand. “What’s the job?”
“It’s a historical film about Marie Laveau called Voodoo Wars.”
A snort from Seth. Sadly, I couldn’t blame him.
“Who’s the stunt coordinator?” Sean asked.
“Cayden Doran.”
Silence. I glanced up at both their faces and gave an inward groan. They’d definitely heard of him and whatever they’d heard was not favorable.
If telling Seth and Sean had been unpleasant, giving Randy the scoop on my new gig was a little slice of unexpected hell. We had our first actual fight since we’d started hanging out—I didn’t even like to think of it as dating—and it left me angry and upset in equal doses.
“Seriously?” Randy stared at me with the kind of expression I normally only received from Seth. “You’re not stupid, Lee. I know you’re not. Why the hell would you agree to work with him? Do you even know the kind of reputation Cayden Doran has?”
“His rep can’t be worse than Crazy Casa’s.”
“If it were Crazy Casa, it would be different. At least I’d know what kind of shit you were going to get into. With Doran, though…” He shook his head, his expression a combination of concern and anger that didn’t sit well with me. What right did he have to be worried and angry on my behalf? I was more than a little tired of well-meaning concern from the men in my life. Didn’t anyone trust me to make decisions for myself?
“Doran is bad news.”
“How do you know?” I wondered how much of Randy’s reaction could be attributed to sour grapes. “I hadn’t even heard his name before.”
“That’s because he’s been in Australia the last ten years or so. He hasn’t done a film here in years. People die on his films.” The last uttered with the “cross my heart and hope to die” solemnity of a kid telling a spooky story around a campfire.
“Oh yeah? Like who?”
I wouldn’t quite say that Randy glared at me, but I’d only ever seen those gold flecks in his eyes when he was either aroused or upset. Suffice to say I did not get laid after this conversation.
“I can’t remember,” he finally replied, “but rumor has it people get hurt on his films.”
I rolled my eyes. “Okay, ‘rumor has it’ is up there with ‘they say.’ Let’s not forget the kind of crap that’s been circulating about me, which we both know isn’t true. Until I know who ‘they’ are, and whether or not ‘they’ started these rumors—which may or may not be baseless—don’t you think we should give him the benefit of the doubt?”
“Okay, fine, you could be right,” he conceded. “But I still would feel better if you didn’t take the job.”
How to describe the panic that flared up inside me? As if someone was trying to shove me in a tiny box and seal it up with chains and padlocks I couldn’t break? Yeah, that was about it.
Randy must have seen something in my expression. “Look,” he said, putting a hand on mine, “you know I’m not gonna tell you not to do anything. That’s not what we’re about. That’s not what I’m about. I’m just asking you to think about it a little longer, okay?”
I gave a bitter little laugh. “No one else is offering me work, including Crazy Casa. In fact, they turned me down. How’s that for pathetic? Doran is the only person willing to take a chance on me, and I need to be working.”
Randy’s muscles visibly tensed under his forest-green Henley. Normally I’d have admired the view, but not this time.
“Dammit, Lee, you know I’d hire you in a heartbeat if there were any women in the cast.”
“Well, there aren’t, so I’m gonna have to take a chance working with Doran. You can either trust me to take care of myself or not. Your choice.”
Silence. And then, “What did Sean have to say about it?”
“We agreed to disagree.” It was only half a lie. We’d disagreed. No agreement had been made. Bottom line, I was old enough to make my own decisions and this just intensified my need to get my own place. I was going to New Orleans.
The thought of beignets and chicory coffee at Café Du Monde had, of course, no bearing on my decision.
* * *
I was standing out on the front porch watching the sun go down behind the mountains, enjoying a cold beer when I became aware of someone standing next to me.
“Randy, what are you doing here?” I asked, trying to keep the irritation out of my voice. We’d already fought and I didn’t want any more bad blood between us.
He didn’t say a word, though. Just shook his head sadly, as if I’d disappointed him.
“If you think you’re going to get me to change my mind about going, it ain’t happening.”
Still no answer. He shook his head again, taking a step and closing the gap between us.
I tried one more time.
“Seriously, Squid, this is not cool. I—”
He stepped forward again, and I took a corresponding step backward, suddenly finding myself pressed up against the porch railing. For the first time since I’d met him, Randy was making me uncomfortable. Almost afraid.
Finally, he spoke. “That’s not why I’m here.”
The wind whipped up out of nowhere, the last glow of sunlight setting the tips of the mountains on fire.
“I know you won’t change your mind.” Randy shook his head in disgust. “You never do what you’re told, do you?”
“What are you—”
“I’m not here to change your mind.” His voice dropped to a low growl and his eyes burned as if lit by flames from the inside. He grabbed my shoulders with fingers that burned with the painful chill of dry ice. “It’s too late for that.”
The railing at my back suddenly fell away into nothingness, tumbling into an endless black chasm that stretched down for miles. I started to go over the edge after it but was saved by Randy’s hands on my shoulders. Except… his features were gone, blanked out by shadows. His fingers dug in painfully, holding me there, suspended over the drop, my feet dangling into empty space.
“What’ll it be, Lee?” Not Randy whispered.
I didn’t answer. Couldn’t speak. He opened his hands and let me fall.
My screams echoed in my ears as I tumbled head over heels down, down, down…
* * *
“Lee?”
My eyes flew open and I jerked awake in the front seat of Seth’s car, mouth open as if in mid-scream.
“Lee? You okay?”
“I…” My voice trailed off as I tried to shake off the shreds of the nightmare that still clouded my brain. Without another word, Seth handed me a bottle of water, which I drained dry in two gulps. Then I let my head fall back against the headrest and heaved a long, shuddering sigh before saying, “Oh, that sucked.”
“Bad dream?”
“Oh yeah.”
“Wanna talk about it?”
“Oh no.” The last thing I wanted to do was discuss the possible Freudian implications of my subconscious mind. “You’d just tell me sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.”
That got maybe an eighth of a smile—just the slight lifting of one corner of his mouth. “Fair enough.”
Seth had actually volunteered to drive me to LAX, despite the fact my flight left close to midnight. Randy would have probably played chauffeur, but I didn’t want to ask him considering how unhappy he was about my taking this job. I also could have taken a Lyft, I suppose, but until I cashed my first paycheck from the production company, I didn’t want to spend money I didn’t have.
Eden, my other option for a ride, was working on a film called Officer Dutch and Mr. French, a gritty police comedy—not my description—about a cop from the Netherlands working with a French PI, and all the hilarious and gritty misunderstandi
ngs between them. According to Eden, hilarity did not ensue. She had the role of the PI’s secretary. Written and directed by an American who thought being Dutch meant an unhealthy love of tulips, while all French people lived on brie and wine.
I shut my eyes again in the hopes of drifting back off to a hopefully dreamless sleep, but the adrenaline rush from the latest nightmare had me well and truly awake. I glanced over at Seth, who had his eyes on the road with the focus of someone taking a driver’s test. For a stuntman, he took safety in mundane activities very seriously. I surreptitiously studied his profile for few minutes, wondering why we couldn’t seem to get along anymore. I also wondered, not for the first time, if he had any idea how good-looking he was. Vanity was not one of Seth’s personal sins.
We passed the Trancas Country Market, all traces of the seaweed dragon and its victims either wiped clean or invisible in the dark. That made me think of Cayden, which made me turn to my cousin and ask, “Have you actually met Cayden Doran or do you only know him by reputation?”
“Both,” he replied, his gaze never straying from the traffic on the road.
“Is there any truth to the rumor that people have died on his stunt crews?”
“Would it make a difference to you if the answer to that is yes?”
And we’d been doing so well. I tried to ignore Seth’s judgmental tone—after all, I could be looking for condemnation where none existed—and answer him truthfully. “It would depend on whether or not the deaths were caused by recklessness or carelessness on his part, or on the part of someone he hired specifically to prevent shit like that from happening.”
Seth gave a little nod. “Then you’re in luck because as much as I’d like to blame his arrogant ass for the shit that went down, I’ve heard that the two deaths were freak accidents.”
“So, aside from Cayden being an arrogant ass—and please note I am not disagreeing with that description—there’s no reason my taking this job should flip people out, right?”
“If you’re worried about Sean, he’s not flipped out. Just concerned. If you’re worried about Randy, on the other hand—” His eyes flickered briefly in my direction before shifting back to the dark highway. “I’m a stuntman, not a relationship counselor.”
“It’s not a relationship,” I shot back. “We’re friends and we’re hanging out, but we’re not exclusive.”
“Friends with benefits.” Seth gave a derisive snort. “Can’t quite make up your mind one way or the other, so you have your cake and eat it too, right?”
I took a deep breath and counted to three. “You think it’s better to dive straight into a relationship instead of taking the time to get to know each other? Or is it because only men are allowed to have sex outside of the sacred bonds of marriage?” Except I pronounced it “mawage” à la Peter Cook in Princess Bride.
“No, it’s just—” He shook his head. “Never mind.” I could feel the tension thrumming through him.
A year ago I would have insisted he finish his thought, no doubt resulting in an ugly argument that would have lasted the rest of the drive. Now, however, after all the crap that I’d experienced since the accident, I didn’t have the energy or desire to argue. I took him at his word and moved past the topic of Randy and sex.
“So,” I said casually, “you’re fine with me working on Voodoo Wars?”
His shoulders relaxed. “Aside from the dumbass title, sure.”
“Well, it’s no Spasm, I’ll grant you that.”
That got a bark of laughter. The rest of the hour-long drive was passed in mutually agreeable silence other than classical music played at a soft, soothing volume.
When we pulled into the terminal at LAX, Seth shut the radio off and placed a hand on my arm as I opened the door.
“You be careful, Lee.”
“I’m a stunt woman,” I replied lightly. “We get paid to do dangerous things carefully, y’know?”
Seth shook his head. “That’s not what I meant. All of the stuff that’s been happening—” he waved his hand “—well, nothing might happen, but anything could.”
I was touched in spite of myself. Gently voiced concern from Seth was as rare as snow in Los Angeles—not unheard of, but extremely rare. “Okay,” I said, “I’ll be careful.”
I got out of the car, and Seth popped the trunk. To my surprise, he also got out of the car and pulled out my monster suitcase for me. I wondered if I should tell Sean to look for a Seth-shaped pod in the backyard.
Seth set my suitcase down in front of me. “Remember, Lee, if you get into trouble out there, you call me.”
Yup, Sean definitely needed to be on the lookout for pods.
“Seth, I’ll be fine,” I assured him. “Besides, you’re going to be working on Spasm. Even if I did get into a metric butt-load of trouble, you wouldn’t have time to fly out.”
Seth shook his head. “Anything happens, you call, do you hear me? And I’ll be there.”
Then he gave me a rough hug, like he didn’t really want to do it but couldn’t help himself. Before I had a chance to be touched by this unexpected Hallmark moment, he added, “Do your best not to sleep with Doran, okay?”
I pulled back and punched him in the arm, hard.
“Thanks for the ride,” I said, and went into the terminal without a backward glance.
Okay, that was weird.
How sad was it, though, that Seth behaving nicely—other than that last potshot about Cayden—was a cause for suspicion? Pretty damn sad.
Oh well, it didn’t do any good to speculate on what exactly was going through his head. That could take years to untangle and I needed to focus on this job. If it went well, then maybe I could wipe the stink of producer-cide off my résumé.
CHAPTER NINE
“Can I offer you a drink? Some champagne, perhaps?”
I smiled up at the flight attendant and nodded. Champagne? Hell, yes. A sense of well-being washed over me, all of my muscles relaxing into the cushy comfort of first-class seating. Red-eye flights usually suck, but a red-eye flight in first class is an entirely different matter and the seat next to me was empty. Free drinks, a comfy seat, plenty of leg room, soft blankets and pillows. I could actually get some sleep.
Well, I could have done if I weren’t so wired after Seth’s parting words. Why did he have to be such an asshat? Oh well, I’d take advantage of the unwanted adrenaline rush and give the script a good read—I hadn’t had the chance until now for more than a cursory look. Pulling out my copy of Voodoo Wars, I sipped some very nice bubbly and flipped through the pages.
It was actually pretty horrific in places. The titular voodoo war was between Marie Laveau, a well-known real-life voodoo queen who’d lived in New Orleans during the 1800s, and her younger rival, Perrine. There was a subplot about the LaLauries, a wealthy Creole couple who want to summon a demon to help them gain more wealth and status. Louis LaLaurie has the hots for Marie. Perrine has the hots for some guy named Étienne. There are some horrific torture scenes that reminded me of The Island of Doctor Moreau. A potboiler of love, lust, vengeance, torture and—oh yes—demon summoning.
“More champagne?” The flight attendant smiled down at me and my empty glass.
“Sure, why not.”
I felt a little light-headed, but what the hell. I went back to the script, highlighting any parts where it looked likely I’d be doubling Marie. The high fall Cayden had talked about was part of a dream sequence, where Marie uses astral projection and possesses the body of a young house slave, who falls from a balcony when running from Louis. The scene shows Marie falling and hitting the ground before cutting to the lifeless body of the slave.
I can do the stunt, no problem, I thought. Hell, give me another glass of champagne and I could fly off the balcony.
My eyelids drooped and I caught myself jerking awake, my head snapping upright after my chin touched the top of my chest. This happened a couple more times before I gave in to the inevitable, set the script on the seat next to
me, and adjusted my own seat for maximum comfort—they reclined almost all the way and wasn’t that sweet?—letting myself get sucked into slumber.
* * *
Darkness pierced by flickering torchlight. Voices chanting. A rhythmic thumping, flesh on flesh, hands clapping, feet stomping on the ground. The musky scent of sweat and sandalwood, cinnamon and sage hanging in the air. A less pleasing odor underneath. Coppery. Rank. Rotten.
Blood, so much blood. The torch flames died down, then flared up, one at a time, each one revealing a mutilated figure. Some missing eyes. Some with their mouths stitched shut. Arms sprouting from torsos. Feet attached to knee stumps. Blood everywhere. Pus oozing slowly out of infected wounds. A rich, terrible smell. I gagged on it, choked on it. Stumbled around in the dark until another torch flared up, revealing a horribly mutilated figure, made all the more horrifying because he was still alive.
And I knew him.
* * *
I jerked awake, heartbeat racing double time, sweat pouring down my face and between my breasts. My hand smacked into the champagne flute and sent it flying into the aisle. Luckily it bounced instead of breaking. Didn’t even wake up my snoring neighbor across the aisle.
“Damn,” I muttered, glaring at the script. If the finished movie had even half the nightmare-inducing qualities of the script, Cayden and his partner would have a hit on their hands.
CHAPTER TEN
As I deplaned and made my way through the gates of Louis Armstrong Airport, my carry-on tote slung over one shoulder, the smell of brown sugar, melted butter and cinnamon from praline stands wafted through the air, managing to overpower the usual airport funk of body odor and cheap food.
Grabbing my suitcase from baggage claim, I stepped out of the terminal into the palpable humidity of autumn in Louisiana. “Holy shit,” I said as sweat broke out on my forehead, chest, and back. I fanned myself with one hand.
A man glanced at me with a look that combined pity and condescension in equal parts. “It’s only eighty degrees,” he drawled. “You should be here in the summer.”