by Dana Fredsti
Oh, the irony.
“Look,” I said, leaning forward to give him a good hard stare. “There have to be jobs that don’t include leaping out of buildings or diving from helicopters.”
“True,” Sean said, “but you know how stuff comes up day to day. And we’ve never made a production wait on anyone or anything to date.”
I couldn’t argue with that. The Katz motto is “Stay on Target,” which is Star Wars for “stay on schedule, stay on budget, and stay employed.” If Sean was on a shoot with only a couple of his team, and the director decided he wanted to film an underwater fight instead of a car crash, Sean needed to know that they could handle it.
Drift, for instance, was one of the top stunt drivers in the business, but he could fight, do a fire gag, and throw himself off anything at any height without hesitation. Tater had the same kind of pedigree, as did all of Sean’s core team. I’d had it too, before I’d gone all splat on the pavement and lost my mojo.
Still, I pushed a little harder.
“So what if there’s a female part that needs doubling, but doesn’t include high falls?”
“Lee, hon, if one of those jobs comes along, you’ll be there, I swear it.” Sean sounded sincere, but his eyes flickered in a way I didn’t quite trust. “I can’t lie to you, though. I’d feel much better if I knew you were okay with taking some falls, too. You know directors.”
I did, and it didn’t make me feel any better about my future. I heaved a sigh.
“You know I can’t possibly live up to you and Seth, right?”
“Don’t expect you to.” Sean reached out and patted me on one knee. “I just need you to live up to yourself.”
“That makes little or no sense.”
“Just get over it. I’ll put you on a job soon, Lee. Just give it a little more time, okay? Remember. Small steps.” He rocked forward one more time and then stood up in an easy motion. “Guess I should go start the afternoon session.”
“Yeah, you should.”
“Give it time,” he said again. “I swear, Lee, as soon as there’s a job where I can, I’ll put you on it.”
I made myself smile and nodded yet again. I was beginning to feel like a bobble-head.
“You gonna join us?” Sean looked at me with so much love and understanding that I wanted to punch him.
“Later,” I said as neutrally as possible. “Tater and I are gonna do some rapier and dagger, and I want to do some wirework. But I think I’ll just hang here for a little bit longer, okay?”
Sean nodded. “Sounds good, hon.” I tried not to read any disappointment into his tone because I didn’t know if it was real, or if I was putting it there.
* * *
I stayed in the rocking chair a few minutes more. Finished my cappuccino. Tossed the apple core out into the yard where it would be devoured either by grateful insects or whatever other scavengers showed up. A big raven swooped down almost immediately.
Sorry, ants.
The raven picked up the core in its beak, looked at me, hopped away a foot or so, and then settled in to enjoy its snack.
As I watched it, I slowly became conscious of an uncomfortable sensation, that I was the one being watched. Normally it wouldn’t have bothered me. My job, after all, put me in front of people and cameras focusing on my every move. There was a difference, however, between that and the feeling that someone was stalking you.
Looking past the raven, out toward the mountains rising behind the Ranch, I could swear someone stood there on a jutting slab of rock above the DuShane mansion, a dark silhouette of a man, watching me. Face in shadows, but his eyes flashing with a red glow, as if fires burned inside.
I blinked, shook my head, and looked again.
Nothing.
The figure was gone from its perch on the outcropping.
The back of my neck itched. The raven stopped its pursuit of the apple core, swiveling its head in the same direction, toward the mountains. It froze, one foot in midair.
The air turned thick and heavy. Even though the sun burned down in its early afternoon glory… I would swear the sky darkened. Sound faded out, as if my ears slowly filled with soft wax. Birds, buzzing insects, the sound of voices from the back. All dampened to barely discernable white noise… and then?
Nothing.
I shivered, goose bumps rising on my bare arms.
What the hell?
The gentle breeze rose into a strong wind that gusted through the side yard, rattling the eucalyptus branches and kicking up little whirlwinds of dirt that rapidly grew into serious dust devils. I shut my eyes, shielding my face with both hands as particles of dirt and debris hit my face. A sharp pebble hit my bare arm, the impact drawing a hiss of pain. My hair, still bound tightly in its braid, whipped around my face like a rope.
The raven didn’t move, not a feather ruffled.
The wind stopped as suddenly as it had started, dropping to nothing within the space of a second. I slowly lowered my hands, carefully brushing debris away from my eyes before opening them.
When I did, someone—something—stood directly in front of me. The same dark figure, larger than life and smelling like death. I couldn’t see his face, even though he stood just a couple of feet away. Eyes glowing red, lit with a fire burning with hate and lust.
I stumbled back, a scream rising in my throat as the back of my knees hit the rocking chair. I collapsed back into the chair, the jolt cutting the scream off before it escaped. My eyes shut involuntarily.
When I opened them again, the figure was gone.
My breath expelled in one long, shaky exhale.
“Holy shit.”
Was I really that tired from a few nights of lousy sleep and the morning’s workout? Were the injuries I’d sustained causing hallucinations? Or was this something else?
I heard the reassuring chatter of voices around the corner, the eerie quiet broken. The raven took a few more pecks at the core, gave a cursory flap of its wings, and took into the air. I watched it fly out of sight, taking deep breaths until my heart rate finally slowed to its normal pace.
CHAPTER FOUR
Once I thought I could stand without my knees wobbling, I put on a pair of metaphorical big girl panties and rounded the porch to see who had shown up for Saturday afternoon training.
It was a smallish group. Tater, Drift, Sean, Seth, Tobias, Moria, and Jada. Tobias, our wirework expert, was the only full-blooded human there besides me, but just as fearless and almost as graceful as the nephs, and definitely more graceful than Drift. Most of us are more graceful than Drift, though. He has cave troll in his family woodshed.
The lack of grace gave Drift a quality of realism, though, and maybe an edge of danger. He could take falls without much padding, and take them hard. Sometimes so hard he left Drift-shaped impressions in the ground. First time I’d seen him “miss” the airbag, I’d freaked and had my cell out to dial 9-1-1, only to have Seth snatch it from me.
“You’re too damned easy,” he’d said. A quick nod and Drift was sitting up, wiping dust off his pants and wearing a self-satisfied grin. I’d burst into tears of mortification. Hey, I was thirteen and hormonal.
Drift had been mortified, too. I’d gotten over it, but it had taken me a few years before I’d learn to appreciate the macabre humor of this bunch.
* * *
Moria—one of the few women who’d made it to the inner circle—was halfway up the high fall ladder. I liked Moria. We’d worked on one or two projects together without any friction, possibly because we looked nothing alike. That means we generally aren’t up for the same jobs.
Curly blond hair cropped short for practicality, a long thin nose, wide grin and short, compact build, Moria had some harpy blood, which not only helped with the aerial stunts but also made it easy for her to hold her own amidst all the obnoxious male bonding. Not that she’s mean. Honestly, Moria was one of the sweetest people I’d met… unless you pissed her off.
Only idiots piss off a harpy.
Forty feet above the ground, Moria saw me watching the action from the porch and waved enthusiastically, using both arms. I waved back, swallowing a bitter pill of envy.
I was less thrilled to see Jada. The tension used to really bother me—the whole females in competition cliché. Then I realized it had less to do with our gender and everything to do with her personality.
She was mostly human, with just a smattering of air elemental in her DNA, and worked hard, although she definitely wasn’t as good as Moria or me. At least, not as good as I used to be. These days Jada had it all over me when the stunt involved anything above ground. She also looked kind of like me, except two sizes smaller, and we’d been up for some of the same jobs.
Jada pitched a minor fit when I’d gotten the Vampshee gig. Accused Sean of nepotism. That had almost gotten her tossed out on her ass. If she hadn’t been fairly toasted on piña coladas when she’d done it, she’d have been history. She’d apologized to him the next day, but hadn’t said a word to me.
Her hangover was still legend.
I’m not sure which bothered me more—her bad judgment in attacking Sean and me, or getting shitfaced drunk on piña coladas. Who does that? Get a real drink.
At any rate, while I’m not saying Jada had a big happy when I got injured, she hasn’t shed any tears over the extra work being farmed her way. She found every opportunity to cozy up to Seth, who gave the appearance of enjoying the attention. Not that it mattered to me who he did in his spare time. Hell, they could get married and spawn a squadron of flying babies for all I cared.
I just wanted to be back at the top of my game. Until then, I hoped Jada liked getting the stunt work equivalent of a pity fuck.
Meow.
Just then Moria hollered, “Geronimo!” and threw herself from the sixty-foot platform like a kid doing a cannonball into a pool. Midway down, she twisted in the air, and landed on her back. No fear. Just pure joy.
I sighed. Was it possible to love and hate something at the same time? Because that was how I felt, watching everyone as they took turns practicing falls that should have been impossible or, at the very least, ended in big splats on the ground. Before my accident I’d loved this part of training, but right now it was just a reminder that I couldn’t keep up with the supernatural crowd. I wasn’t part nephilim or djinn. My great aunt wasn’t a harpy or an air elemental. I’d always been limited to what I could do, even after years of practice.
This just sucked.
I sighed yet again and went over to see if Tobias would work with me on the Russian swing.
* * *
The sound of drums and bass penetrated the walls. Devon, their neighbor’s son two doors down, had been working at putting a band together for the last year. They practiced every evening from six to nine, except for weekends. Then the lucky neighbors were guaranteed an afternoon serenade. Sometimes just bass and Devon’s unfortunate vocals. Other times drums and guitar were added to the mix.
Sound pollution by way of aspiring musicians.
Oh well, nothing to be done about it other than stuff a towel in the gap between door and floor.
In daylight the room was nothing out of the ordinary. Not even a real basement, just a small windowless annex to the garage transformed into a tacky man-cave. The olive shag rug, fake wood paneling on the walls, and overstuffed plaid lounger screamed “sixties.”
Six black candles cast flickering, unstable light as a false promise of protection against the dark, turning the room into something sinister. Five of them marked each point of the pentagram drawn within the borders of a large red chalked circle, at least five feet in diameter. Sigils and symbols, also rendered in red chalk, bordered every inch of the circle.
The sixth candle rested on a wrought iron holder in front of a hooded figure seated in the middle of a smaller circle, also bordered with protective glyphs. A small cast-iron cauldron sat on the floor next to the candle, several jars and vials scattered within arm’s reach of the room’s lone occupant.
The hooded figure held a piece of paper under the candle, mouthing the words to get a feel for them but taking care not to say them out loud.
Not yet.
Sure, this whole thing might just be a crock of shit—but if it wasn’t, the spell made it very clear what would happen if the right ingredients weren’t cast at the right time with the right words. Real bad juju. Eyeballs bleeding, guts spilling out onto the floor.
Why take chances?
Taking a deep breath, the figure carefully lit a tea light seated under the base of the cauldron. Spoke slowly and clearly, making sure to enunciate the arcane invocations correctly while dropping each item into the murky liquid. When the last ingredient vanished into the pot, things changed.
The air became thick, almost viscous. Electricity crackled throughout the room, transforming it into something dark and terrible. The temperature dropped, ice crystals forming on the walls. The smell of ozone, rotted flesh, and much worse rose from the cauldron. Writhing shadows appeared in the center of the pentacle, taking shape only to dissolve when they touched the borders of the chalked circle.
The conjuror smiled, despite the shivers that wracked every limb to the point it felt like something might break.
Hot damn.
It had worked.
* * *
Frowning petulantly, Devon stopped in the middle of “Mango Nation.” He’d been rocking it, pretending that his parents’ garage was a filled-to-capacity audience at the Troubadour, all of them there to hear him.
“Look, Rick,” he said with exaggerated patience, giving a toss of his head and displacing the hank of purple hair that usually rested deliberately over one eye. “We’ve talked about it, okay? You need to slow it the fuck down, okay? I know the rest of the band’s not here, but that’s no excuse, right?”
* * *
Rick just looked at his best friend.
Devon always had to prove something, even when he didn’t have the skills to follow through. He wanted to be the next Bono, to stand in front of thousands, raise his hands and be worshipped. He also wanted to wow the crowds with his guitar riffs, though, and he wasn’t willing to give up one for the other. He’d missed the last few chord changes while trying to sing the lead on the chorus. It was easier to blame the tempo—and his friend—than admit he wasn’t good enough.
“I mean, you rushed the transition to the bridge. You felt it, right?”
The two had played variations on the theme “it’s always Rick’s fault” many times over the course of their ten-year friendship. Up to this point, Rick had always played along without trying to change the tune. He’d always been easy going, so he’d just kept trying to make the band work. They had something really good, if he could just get Devon to drop the ego.
He’d turned into a decent guitarist after a lot of practice, but still couldn’t deal with the complexities of playing and singing at the same time. Plus, his singing voice—nasal with an unfortunate and affected vibrato—was more suited to a mediocre folk band than rock and roll.
Rick just wanted to share the stage with talented musicians who would help create a unique sound. But how was he supposed to tell his best friend that he totally sucked at the one thing he’d always wanted to do?
They’d already been through two bass players—both who’d been really hot on the original songs, but they couldn’t deal with Devon. Bam, the current guy, had this awesome gravely baritone voice perfect for the material. He and Rick rocked the rhythm section. They were tight and had the same vision.
Bam also had connections.
“Dude…” Rick took a deep breath and continued, knowing if he didn’t get this out now, he never would. “Got a call from Bam this morning.”
“Yeah? Did he mention he was gonna be late?” Devon threw an angry look at the wall clock. “Shit, it’s already seven.”
“No, he didn’t. What he said is he’s out if you don’t change your mind about singing lead vocals.”
“
Fuck.”
Quietly uttered.
“Fuck!”
Louder, as Rick’s words sunk in.
“FUCK!”
Devon kicked the speaker closest to him, pulling the force behind the kick just in time to avoid punching a hole in the mesh with the pointy metal toe of his trendy leather boots.
Rick stayed still behind his drum set. He’d known his friend would go off when he heard Bam’s news. Couldn’t exactly blame him, but he also couldn’t summon up any sympathy either. They could either have a successful band, or a vanity project for Devon. They couldn’t have both.
Devon unhooked his guitar strap, placing his beloved Charvel So Cal gently in its stand before striding back and forth across the garage.
“Fuck it. Fuck Bam. We’ll put an ad in the Recycler and Craigslist, find someone else. Shouldn’t be too hard. I mean, bass players are a dime a dozen, right?”
Another familiar refrain, and so not true.
Rick stayed silent.
“We still need to find a good rhythm guitarist, so we can do a two-for-one ad. Maybe we should go for a percussionist too. I mean, we want to round out the sound, right?”
“No.”
Devon either didn’t hear him, or paid no attention, and continued pacing back and forth in the garage.
“We can try Nextdoor.com too, maybe find someone in the neighborhood to make rehearsing easier.”
Rick stood up. Took another deep breath.
“No,” he repeated. “Not this time, Dev.”
“What?”
Devon stopped and stared at his friend.
“We’ve done this three times. Had three good bass players. Lost them because you can’t admit you shouldn’t be on lead vocals.” Rick carefully placed his sticks down and stood up behind his kit. “I’m done with this.”
“Come on, man.” Devon gave a little laugh. “We’ve been through this before. We can do it again.”
“That’s the point. I don’t want to do it again. Why can’t you see that? Bam is the best bass player we’ve ever had and he’s got a great voice. He’s exactly what this band needs. I’m sick of losing talented people because you can’t step away from your fucking ego.”