Lilith--Blood Ink

by Dana Fredsti

  I bet she used the pink weights at the gym.

  I turned back to Devon. “You come from a stunts background, right?”

  “See, Cayden, you bastard, I haven’t lost it.” He flexed a biceps and kissed it. I rolled my eyes, but still grinned.

  “It’s the attitude,” Cayden drawled. “Everything about you screams ‘cocky son-of-a-bitch.’ Although it’s gotten worse since you started directing. I think your head has gone up two hat sizes at least.”

  “Three,” Devon corrected him, “but who’s counting?”

  “So how big a crew are we looking at?” I asked, hoping it would break up the male bonding.

  “It’s a small crew,” Devon answered. “You look at movies from the seventies, even some from the eighties, and there was none of this half-hour’s worth of credits with everyone who even thought of working on the film listed. We don’t need a cast or crew of thousands to make quality films. Just the right cast and crew, eh, Cayden?”

  Cayden nodded, somehow implying neither agreement nor disagreement. More like he didn’t give a shit one way or the other. His eyes were on me as if gauging my reaction.

  I shrugged. I’d worked on both types of productions and plenty in between, and it all depended on the competence of those in charge, and who they hired.

  “Who else do I get to meet tonight?”

  “The Ginga brothers,” Cayden said. “They’ll be doing any rigging needed, plus they’re on the stunt team. Worked with them on three films to date. And speak of the devil…”

  “Oy!” Devon jumped to his feet and waved enthusiastically at the two men entering the patio, nearly smacking Langdon in the face and totally clueless at his own near-miss. The actor chuckled again with the same painfully fake bonhomie that again went unacknowledged.

  The Ginga brothers were short and well-built, one in cargo shorts and a souvenir New Orleans T-shirt, the other in a teal button-down shirt worn untucked over black jeans. Both men had dark, weathered skin and curly dark-brown hair shot through with bronze and blond highlights that would cost a fortune to get in a salon. They looked as if they spent equal amounts of time in the sun and working out.

  “Lee Striga,” Cayden said, “meet Illuka and Miro Ginga. I’ve worked with them on three different Australian films, and they’re solid.”

  “Dependable and versatile,” Devon added.

  Their last name joggled something in my memory, but I couldn’t quite place it.

  “Nice to meet you both.” I stood up, holding out a hand to the brothers in quick succession. Their eyes were an unusual shade of yellowish gold and I caught a brief glimpse of a reptilian slit to the pupils that reminded me of the Eye of Sauron. Then I blinked, looked again to find that the pupils rounded out to a more human appearance. The skin of their palms was rough, almost scaly, and their smiles showed way more very white teeth than necessary.

  They both beamed at me with those wide, toothy grins.

  “We go by Mike and Ike on set,” said the one in the cargo shorts with a strong Aussie accent.

  “Like the candy?”

  “Exactly right,” he agreed. “I’m Mike. Pleased to meet you.”

  “Dingo Lake,” I said as my brain suddenly made the connection. “You two worked on Dingo Lake, right?” Dingo Lake was one of several torture porn films that came out of Australia on the heels of the success of Wolf Creek. Not my type of film, but the action sequences had been crazy good. The lake location they’d used was next to abandoned oil derricks, and there’d been some really cool wirework and high falls that almost compensated for the “Abandon all hope, ye who watch this film” body count.

  “You two did the stunt coordinating and at least one of you played a victim,” I continued. “The guy who gets his hand stuck in an animal trap and then dragged into the lake by a crocodile, right?”

  “That was me,” Ike piped up with the same accent as his twin. “Mike was locked in a shed with an improbable number of redback spiders.”

  “Oh yeah, I remember that bit.” Despite the title, there weren’t actually any dingoes in the movie, but there’d been plenty of crocodiles, poisonous snakes, and venomous spiders, all unrealistically utilized by the homicidal villain.

  “Lee Striga,” Mike—or was it Ike?—exclaimed, grinning from ear to ear with what looked like genuine pleasure. “I know your work in Vampshee. You’re the best thing in that movie.”

  His brother—definitely Ike—nodded. “He speaks the truth.”

  I smiled at the compliment, accepting it without argument both because it was the polite thing to do and because I totally agreed with them.

  “It would be a pleasure to meet Sean Katz as well,” Ike added.

  “If you make it out to Los Angeles, you’ll have to come out to the Ranch,” I immediately offered. They beamed happily at that, taking seats across from me next to Devon.

  “You didn’t invite me to the Ranch.” Cayden leaned across the table, grinning at me. Leandra glanced suspiciously between the two of us. I’d seen cats with that look right before they smacked a rival feline in danger of getting too close.

  “You didn’t mention wanting to meet Sean,” I replied sweetly.

  “Oh, we’ve met.”

  I glanced at him sharply. “Sean didn’t mention that.”

  “I’ll wager Seth didn’t either.” Cayden wore a small smile that made my fingers itch to slap it off his face.

  I wasn’t sure who I was more pissed off at—Cayden or Sean. Since I couldn’t make up my mind, I decided to crumple my anger into a tiny little bitter ball for later. I turned my attention back to the Ginga brothers.

  “Is ‘Ginga’ an Aboriginal name?” I asked, hoping they wouldn’t be offended. They weren’t.

  Mike nodded. “It’s a name for the first crocodile, Old Man Ginga.” He leaned in. “One day, when Ginga was still human, he was sleeping by a fire near a billabong. He slept too close to the flames, poor bloke, and caught fire. So he dived into the water, and the mix of water and fire raised up big blisters on his back.”

  “In order to escape the pain,” Ike continued, “Ginga turned himself into a giant crocodile. Now you can see the ridges and lumps on Ginga’s back in the water and along the shores of billabongs, rivers, and the oceans.”

  “You see, our family is descended from Ginga,” Mike added. “We can cross rivers and estuaries that are infested with crocodiles and our cousins will grant us safe passage.”

  Ike nodded. “Especially useful when we’re filming in the Northern Territory.”

  “Does that work with alligators as well?” Langdon asked.

  “Oh yeah,” Ike replied. “Caimans too, although they’re not really much of a threat. Not like salties or alligators.”

  “Was… Was the Crocodile Hunter related to Ginga too?” I couldn’t resist the question. Both brothers nodded, big grins on their faces as if pleased I’d figured this out.

  If I ever got a chance to visit Australia, I wanted to make sure these two were my tour guides. I might be able to take on demons, but crocodiles were another matter. There was something primordially horrifying at the thought of being ripped to pieces by a reptile, especially one that did a death roll first.

  “Lee Striga,” Mike said thoughtfully. “Yes. You’re the one who got hurt taking a high fall, yeah?”

  “Yeah, that’s me.” I heaved an inward sigh. How I longed for the days when I was known for taking high falls and doing kick-ass wirework rather than being recognized as the stuntwoman who bounced off the sidewalk.

  “Hard luck,” Ike commented.

  “It was,” I agreed. “Let’s make sure it doesn’t happen on this film.”

  “No one’s been hurt when we’ve done the rigging or thrown down the airbags,” Mike assured me.

  “I’ll drink to that.” I held up my glass. Almost magically the waitress appeared yet again, carrying extra glasses, a large pitcher of beer and a fresh wine spritzer for Leandra. In a blink of an eye we were all raising a toast
to Voodoo Wars.

  * * *

  “You like this, baby?”

  Tiffany stared up into Blaise’s face, trying to match his rhythm as he moved on top of her. He had startling good looks, a mix of Louisiana Creole and Cajun heritage, with striking bone structure and full lips a model would envy. Jade-green eyes against smooth umber skin. Wavy dark hair. He knew he was handsome and regularly exploited this to his advantage. Tiffany didn’t care. She did the same thing every day. She loved his features, the fact they could be twins—if her skin was just a few shades darker.

  Normally all she needed to get off was to see Blaise’s face when they fucked. Tonight, though, even though she felt a growing heat in her belly and groin, it was unstable. As if she was going to both come and vomit at the same time. She swallowed as her gorge rose, forcing it back as she tried to focus on Blaise.

  “Tiff, what’s wrong with your stomach?” Blaise paused in his thrusts.

  “Huh?”

  “It’s all… squishy. Soft. Maybe you should lay off the booze, spend some time at the gym.”

  “Fuck you,” Tiffany shot back, but there was no real heat in her voice. She didn’t have the energy.

  Blaise shrugged. “Sure thing.” He continued his rhythmic thrusting with a distinct lack of imagination common—if not unique—to young startlingly good-looking men. A few minutes later he paused again.

  “Something stinks.”

  He sniffed the air, upper lip pulling back like a dog that smelled something bad.

  Tiff shrugged, lackluster. “I don’t smell it.” But she did. Sweet and rank and septic. The kind of smell that drew in its prey, then sucked the life juices out of it. The thought spilled out of her, unbidden. If she hadn’t felt so sick, she would have wondered where it came from.

  “Damn, babe,” Blaise said, drawing back a little further without actually withdrawing from her. “You ate something that died in there or what?”

  Tiffany would have lashed out at him if she’d had the energy—and if she wasn’t suddenly distracted by the sensation of Blaise’s hand sinking into the flesh of her stomach, as if her organs and muscles were dissolving, melting like taffy in the New Orleans heat.

  “What the f—” Blaise’s words were swallowed up as his firm, muscled forearms, chiseled abs, and penis rapidly dissolved and he collapsed on top of Tiffany, his tongue and teeth rotting in his mouth. Flesh putrefying, blackening, liquefying. The juices were eagerly sucked into Tiffany’s fluid-starved body. When two strange men entered her room a short time later and carried her out, she would have screamed too, but her throat clogged with thorns. The tattoo—having quietly fed on its host since the ink had been laid down—had started to grow.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  I slept in as late as possible, since getting to the production meeting involved nothing more complicated than taking the elevator and walking down a hallway. When I knew I couldn’t put the inevitable off any longer, I rolled out of the all-too-comfy bed, hit the “brew” button on the Keurig machine to start the much-needed caffeination of my bloodstream, and ducked into the shower for a quick rinse.

  Berserker Productions had closed out Onc Cochon, our faithful waitress keeping the food and drinks flowing until Cayden finally slapped down a silver-embossed black credit card. One of those cards that means the bearer can afford pretty much anything. If the look on the waitress’s face was anything to go by, he’d left one hell of a generous tip.

  The meeting was being held in one of the hotel suites, which was serving as the production’s office for the time being. Again, I wondered what kind of budget they had that could afford this type of luxury. The kind of budget that came with spiffy black credit cards, I guessed.

  Devon opened the door when I knocked, hair still wet from the shower and brimming with near manic energy. “Lee!” he exclaimed, giving me an unsolicited hug. He didn’t try to turn it into anything creepy, but I really wish he would’ve asked first.

  I was impressed with how clean the suite was. Given the normal habits of film crews, I’d half-expected to find empty beer bottles littering the surfaces and used condoms in the wastebaskets. But the only thing spread out across the available surfaces were script pages and storyboards, with several high-end laptops jostling for position. There was also a tray of sandwiches on a side table, along with a pitcher of ice water and a decent-sized coffee maker.

  A woman with cropped blonde hair and a dark tan sat behind a desk near one of the windows, speaking rapidly into a Bluetooth headset. Although she spoke quietly, I overheard more than one swear word delivered in a broad Australian accent. Probably the unit production manager. She had a certain predatory smile and “I will take no shit” attitude that went with the territory.

  “That’s Jen.” Devon pointed at the blonde. “She’s the UPM.”

  Hah! Jen raised a hand in an absent-minded wave, never looking away from her notes or taking her attention away from her phone call.

  “She’s also the line producer,” he added, “so don’t piss her off. She pretty much runs Berserker Productions.”

  “And I’m Daphne, the FX coordinator,” a cheerful Southern-accented voice piped up behind me. I turned as a Junoesque brunette walked through the door. Smooth, milky skin, all voluptuous curves in a loose orange sun dress. Huge brown eyes with Bambiesque lashes, a tiny nose, and full lips that rivaled Angelina Jolie’s. She seemed supremely comfortable in her own skin and smelled like gardenias. Not perfume, but fresh flowers. Some sort of tree nymph.

  I shook her outstretched hand and introduced myself. She nodded knowingly and said, “I’m so glad y’all are on board. Cayden was determined to hire you for this film, but he wasn’t sure if he could get you or not.”

  “Really? How long ago was this?”

  “Oh, you know…” Daphne said vaguely, waving one hand as though that explained it all.

  It didn’t, but I managed to refrain from pushing the issue for the time being. Had I been on his radar before the encounter at Ocean’s End? Or had the idea popped into his head because of that? Did it actually matter? Probably not, but I still wanted to know.

  Cayden sat on the couch, staring intently at a series of storyboards and making notes on a MacBook Pro, a fifteen-inch that still looked too small for his hands. Angelique was curled up on a chair, feet tucked underneath her, one arm resting on her knees. She held a cup of coffee in one hand and a croissant in the other. Smiling, she gave me a friendly wave with the croissant.

  I raised a hand in greeting, then quickly scanned the room for the source of her pastry. I had priorities. Mike and Ike were over by one of the windows, standing over a tray of various pastries perched on an end table. My eyes brightened, and I quickly snagged a plump chocolate croissant, still warm, the chocolate melting into the buttery pastry.

  “Are you guys trying to hide this?”

  The brothers grinned, neither denying nor confirming my accusation.

  I didn’t care. I had my croissant. I poured myself a cup of coffee, grateful that there was actual half-and-half instead of nondairy creamer. It’s the little things in life.

  Langdon arrived, along with the first assistant director, a tall skinny guy named Liam with a laconic style of speech that seemed to be the trademark of most of the ADs I’d worked with to date. A few minutes later Jen finished her call and we all settled down around the coffee table. There was room on the couch next to Cayden, but I pulled up a chair next to Angelique instead. Leandra was missing, but then this particular meeting was primarily to discuss the stunts. Angelique and Langdon would be doing their own stunts, so they both needed to be here. Leandra, thankfully, did not.

  “Micah!” Angelique waved and jumped to her feet as a twenty-something guy walked in. Thick, unkempt brown hair, freckled skin, and wide-set green eyes. His lips were full. He looked like he smiled a lot.

  “Micah, right on time,” Jen said in pleased tone. “For those of you who haven’t already met him, this is Micah, our main production assis
tant, runner, and driver. He will be ferrying people to and from location, he knows where and how to get just about anything in this city and the surrounding areas, and we ask that you treat him like the treasure that he is.”

  Micah’s grin got even wider.

  “Right then,” Devon said, rubbing his hands together. “We have three primary locations that feature the main action sequences. All of them may or may not include a little bit of green screen, depending on how good the initial location shoots are. If we do need green screen, we have access to a local studio thanks to our FX genius.” He tipped a nod toward Daphne. She didn’t argue with his description.

  Cayden nodded. “We’re going to do as much practical effects as possible, but as you can see by the storyboards, some gags won’t photograph well even if we had the combined supernatural skills to pull them off. So we’ll be using a combination of practical and CGI when necessary. This scene, for instance.” He tapped several sheets of storyboard, spreading them out on the coffee table so we all could see them. “This is the main action sequence when Marie and Perrine are trying to kill each other, and then realize that they have a common enemy in Louis.”

  I leaned in to take a look. The scene in question took place in a clearing in the Bayou. Lots of power bolts shot from open palms. Invisible spirits causing winds and striking invisible blows. Snakes boiling out of the earth. Stuff like that.

  The culmination of the fight between the two women involved torches that morphed into flaming swords being wielded almost like quarterstaffs, moving in and out of the throng of worshippers.

  “Lots of fire on set,” I observed.

  Daphne nodded. “We’ll have a fire marshal on set, even though it’d take some work setting the bayou where we’re filming on fire. I don’t even know if that’s physically possible.”

  I went back to the storyboards. It would take great precision and a lot of practice, and it wasn’t something just anyone could do. I’d kick ass at it, and make sure Angelique was up to speed too.