The Spawn of Lilith

by Dana Fredsti

  I smiled.

  Every now and then, not only do life and people not disappoint you, they exceed your expectations. Next time I had a crappy day, I’d do my best to remember this.

  Then I saw another note, attached to a lavender bra.

  My bra.

  The one I’d been wearing when Randy arrived.

  Oh, shit.

  This note read, Found this in the carport. If you can’t keep your clothes on, at least try and pick them up when you’re done.

  No signature, but I recognized the handwriting.

  “Fuck you very much, Seth,” I said softly.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Coffee. Coffee now.

  It was five thirty in the morning on the first day of the shoot. My call time was eight. I’d wanted to beat the traffic so I’d gotten up extra early and driven the scenic route down PCH. Not sure why I bothered since my sleep-fogged brain barely registered anything beyond the other cars.

  My usual mega-sized travel mug of java wasn’t doing its job. I think there was something in its contract about not being effective before 6 A.M. At least I had more than enough time to find a Starbucks and get more caffeine into my system.

  It seemed strange that I even had a call time today. The shooting schedule showed a couple of scenes with Jeanette by herself and one with Jake, with some dialogue between the two over the ship’s intercom system. Sure, I’d be working with Darius on the fight choreography, but there didn’t seem to be anything that would require stunt doubling or an actual call time.

  Oh, well—I got paid, regardless. I’d feast from the craft service table and enjoy being away from the Ranch, earning a decent wage.

  Despite the godawful hour—or maybe because of it—the Starbucks parking lot in Malibu was nearly full. There was a tiny little spot at the far end, just big enough for the Saturn. About a quarter of it was taken up by an inconsiderately parked Miata with the cryptic vanity plate DIROFOT. I managed to squeeze out of the driver’s side door without injury to either car, although my back didn’t think much of the early-morning contortions.

  Inside there were only two people in line ahead of me. One, a painfully skinny brunette in black slacks and a button-up-the-front, long-sleeved, fitted broadcloth shirt was all hyper awake and talking rapidly on her Bluetooth while the cashier tried to take her order. The other, a tall blond guy who looked vaguely familiar, read a copy of The Hollywood Reporter while waiting his turn. The tables were filled with earnest-looking people working on their laptops, earbuds firmly in place to cocoon them against the outside world.

  I yawned and tried to ignore everything except for the aroma of coffee and baked goods.

  The blond guy gave me a cursory glance as he left, but found nothing interesting about my black yoga pants, oversized green hoodie and face free of makeup. He walked out without a backward glance. Something about that nagged at my memory, but I had more important things to think about, like whether or not I wanted “a pastry with your drink, miss?”

  I didn’t, but I did want a turkey bacon breakfast sandwich.

  Five minutes later I walked out with a triple cappuccino and my sandwich. The red Miata was thankfully gone and whoever had pulled their Mercedes into that spot was better at parking between the lines, allowing me to get into my car without feeling like I was auditioning for Cirque de Soleil.

  By the time I reached Dobell Studios, the sun had risen, my brain was almost firing on all cylinders, and my enthusiasm for the day ahead had washed away the last of my internal whininess. There were already several other cars parked in the lot, along with a big-ass Star Waggon taking up the entire back row of spaces along an expanse of grass and trees. Next to that a red Miata.

  DIROFOT.

  Finally, it hit me.

  DIR… director.

  “Director of Fot.”

  Fot… foto… photo.

  “Director of photography.”

  Oh, shit.

  The blond was Connor Hayden. And his presence here at this ungodly hour could only mean one thing. Of all the films on all the soundstages in all of Los Angeles County, he had to DP on mine.

  Some people would have made a big deal out of this, called it a “synchronistic life event” and insisted that there was a cosmic reason Connor and I had crossed paths again. For me, it foreshadowed lots of shaky cam and weird angles. Fight scenes filmed in extreme close-up. Ugh.

  Climbing out of my car, I retrieved my tote bag from the trunk and reluctantly followed the sound of voices emanating from the elephant doors in the side of the huge, corrugated soundstage. Draining the last of my cappuccino, I steeled myself and went inside.

  The soundstage was dark, with only three lightbulbs above the elephant doors. Several long metal tables were set up on either side, and everybody who’d already arrived was congregating at the tables, hovering like moths around a bug lamp. As I drew closer, I saw why.

  Bagels, pastries, coffee, juice, fruit, cereal. A very respectable craft service, with a table for food and a table for beverages. A comfortably plump blonde woman somewhere between thirty and fifty sat behind the food table, eyes at half-mast as she sipped a cup of coffee.

  Herman Dobell stood next to one table, mug of coffee in one hand, talking to his DP. Meanwhile, a short, pudgy guy in khaki pants and a navy-blue polo shirt carried on an animated conversation with a man and a woman, both dressed in black jeans and T-shirts. Both tall and slender, the woman with auburn hair worn long and straight. The man clean-shaven, dirty blond hair cut short. All three looked somewhere in their thirties.

  No one noticed my entrance. I took advantage of this, moving close enough to eavesdrop. Hayden appeared to be holding forth on the virtues of Steadicam versus handheld while Herman nodded, either genuinely interested or faking it.

  “—while the Steadicam allows you freedom of movement without taking the time to lay track, and it does a good job of following unpredictable action, handheld gives a more visceral, genuine feel, but it’s an acquired taste. Both can move over varied terrain with much greater ease. This is a positive, given the set configuration and—”

  Boring, I thought. I turned my attention to the pudgy guy instead. “—last scene to reflect a change of heart for Jake. The bright star I’m talking about? It’s actually the Star of Bethlehem, and it makes Jake realize that he needs to follow Jesus now!”

  “That’s not why Jake’s a born-again Muslim, Jack,” the woman said with forced patience. “He switches religions the way some people redecorate their houses. It’s his quirk.”

  Ah, Jack. Must be the director. And I’d bet the couple was Dan and Breanna Tymon, the screenwriters. It was odd, though, to have the writers on set at this point in the production. Their job was pretty much done, and a lot of producers preferred to have the writers as far away from set as possible. But, as in so many other areas, Herman didn’t play to type.

  “Yes, but wouldn’t it be great if Jake has followed all of these other religions over his life except for Christianity?” Jack countered with painfully earnest enthusiasm. “See, this way it becomes more than a quirk, and when he finally figures it out, he realizes that this is what he’s been waiting for!”

  The Tymons exchanged a quick look.

  “Don’t you think that’s kind of insulting to the people out there who might not feel the same way?”

  “I don’t see why,” Jack said indignantly.

  “Look,” Dan said with a lot less patience than his wife. “That’s not the point. It’s a character quirk. A lighthearted take on religion, not a heavy-handed message of any sort.”

  “But—”

  “No buts. We’ve been over this before. This isn’t up for negotiation. Right, Herman?” Dan raised his voice to catch the producer’s attention.

  It worked. Dobell turned toward the writer, shaking his head when he saw who was involved in the conversation. “Tell me you’re not trying to talk them into the Star of Bethlehem again, Jack.”

  Then he saw me lurking
in the background and smiled.

  “Lee! Let me introduce you to everyone. Everyone, this is Lee Striga, Portia’s stunt double. Lee, Jack Garvey, the director.”

  The pudgy guy stepped forward and shook my hand with three enthusiastic pumps before releasing it. “A pleasure, Lee.”

  “Breanna and Dan Tymon, the writers.”

  I beamed at them. “Love the script!”

  They beamed right back.

  “Kat’s the magic worker behind craft service.”

  The sleepy-eyed blonde smiled at me. I smiled back.

  “And this,” Herman continued, “is Connor Hayden, our Director of Photography. He’s fresh out of the USC graduate program, and we’re lucky to get him.”

  Connor didn’t bother with the usual polite disclaimer. It was clear he agreed we were blessed by his presence.

  I nodded coolly. “Hi, there.”

  Connor held out his hand. “A pleasure to meet you,” he said with just enough inflection to avoid being rude. He didn’t look any more impressed with me now than he had at Starbucks, if I’d even registered on his radar. I shook the proffered hand, judging his grip.

  Definitely meh. Not clammy or wimpy. Just… lazy. As if he couldn’t be bothered to put any real effort into it.

  “We hope to get some exciting stuff from Connor on this film,” Herman said.

  Connor looked at me and said, “Well, I’m sure it won’t meet Classic Star Trek’s standards of excellence, but I’ll do my best.”

  Shit.

  I was trying to think of an acceptable response when I was saved by the sound of footsteps heading our way from the dark corners to the right. Considering how loud they were, I expected someone about Drift’s size. Instead, a tiny sylph of a girl—her frame swimming in a dark-blue hoodie at least two sizes too large—stomped her way into the circle of light.

  Short spiky hair dyed a vibrant blue. Small, pointed nose topped by a pair of large brown eyes that seemed too big for her face, like an anime character come to life. She headed straight for Herman and Jack, fairly bristling with irritation.

  “Okay, guys,” she said in a voice surprisingly big for her size. “One of you needs to tell Portia that we are not doing glamour makeup for this film. We’ve been over this several times, and she’s still insisting. I’ve told her this isn’t a Sy-Fy original.”

  “I’ll go have a word with her.” Herman put a reassuring hand on the girl’s shoulder. “Just remember, you’re dealing with an actor’s insecurity.”

  “Or insanity,” she muttered.

  I snickered at that. Herman noticed and introduced us. “Lee, this is Kyra Gilbert, our makeup supervisor, and first runner up on the last season of Face Off. Kyra, Lee is Portia’s stunt double.”

  “Nice to meet you,” I said. “And I’ll wear any lipstick, without complaint.”

  She gave a wry smile. “Well, it’s going to have to match Portia’s, but I can promise you that it won’t be Scarlet Harlot Sin.”

  “That’s actually a shade?”

  She nodded. “Sadly, yes.”

  “Well, it is a step above Slutty Sangria.”

  Her smile widened. “Or Prostitute Pomegranate.”

  “Or—”

  Jack stepped in. “Is Portia almost finished in Makeup?” Even in the dim light I could see he was blushing.

  What the hell is this guy doing in the film industry?

  “Pretty much,” Kyra said. “Although she was threatening to wipe it all off and make me start again.”

  Herman gave an almost imperceptible sigh.

  “I’ll talk to her.”

  “While you’re at it, can you tell her it’s not my job to get her coffee? I don’t even know what constitutes a ‘skinny mocha.’”

  This time the sigh was clearly audible.

  “I’ll send Pete out on a Starbucks run. Tell Portia I’ll be there in a minute.”

  Kyra nodded, satisfied, and headed toward the double doors. Herman started to follow and then stopped.

  “Lee, why don’t you come with me, and I’ll introduce you to Portia. You might as well get into makeup and wardrobe early, since you’re here.”

  “Sure thing.”

  “That’s a great idea,” Jack said enthusiastically.

  Connor nodded. “It would be useful to have a stand-in for lighting.”

  I glanced sharply at Connor. “No offense,” I said, “but a stunt double and a stand-in are two entirely different people.”

  “Why would I be offended?”

  His superior little smile made my knuckles itch. I wanted to smack the annoying smug off his face. Instead I turned to Herman and Jack.

  “I’m assuming Portia has a stand-in?”

  Because if she has a friggin’ Star Waggon, you sure as hell should be able to afford one.

  Jack looked sheepish. “Portia fired her.”

  Of course she did.

  I stopped myself from rolling my eyes.

  Herman nodded. “Normally we use extras for stand-ins, give them a bump in pay. But, as you know, the script is short on extras. I’d ask a PA, but both of them are male this time around.”

  “Totally wrong for the play of light and shadow on her face,” Connor interjected.

  I kept my mouth shut, but no one gave me a medal for self-restraint.

  “I know it’s a lot to ask,” Herman continued, “but I would personally appreciate it very much if you could help us out today. I’ll get someone else in for the rest of the shoot, I promise.” He gave me a hopeful smile, all boyish and charming. It may have been totally calculated, but it still had the desired effect.

  Dammit.

  “Sure,” I said, folding like a shitty poker hand.

  Problem solved, Connor turned to Jack and began discussing the day’s shooting schedule. Thus dismissed, I followed Herman to Makeup.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  As we walked back through the double doors, I nearly collided with a man coming through from the other side. He stopped his momentum just in time to avoid knocking me over, grabbing my shoulders to steady me.

  Herman shook his head. “Jaden, one of these days you’re going to kill someone, the way you barrel through those doors.”

  “Oh. Yeah. Sorry.”

  Late twenties, dark-brown skin, olive-colored eyes. Short black curly hair sticking straight up as if he’d run his hands through it repeatedly. Wiry muscles and a lean build. Blue jeans and an Avengers T-shirt in need of some serious time in a washing machine. Totally cute in a mad scientist kind of way, including an air of twitchy distraction that made my skin itch and wonder if he owned a DeLorean.

  “Lee, this is Jaden, our special-effects coordinator. Lee is Portia’s new stunt double.”

  “Hey,” he mumbled, gazing off toward the back of the sound-stage.

  “Hi there,” I said, offering him my hand.

  He took it and we shared a brief handshake. Jaden’s palm and fingers were crusted with dried paint and old glue, and reminded me of lizard skin.

  “I can’t wait to see how you handle the effects,” I continued. “I’m really looking forward to the Morganti shadow tricks.”

  Jaden’s body jerked back, almost as if I’d hit him with a mild Taser jolt. Herman put a steading hand on his shoulder, his expression concerned.

  “You okay, Jaden?”

  Jaden shook his head, almost like a dog shaking off water. He looked me in the eyes for the first time and smiled. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Just really preoccupied. Lots to do still.”

  Herman clapped him on the back. “Jaden’s worked his ass off on the Morganti sequences,” he said warmly. “They’re going to be great.”

  “You going for CGI?”

  Jaden’s smile grew secretive. “Now that would be telling. Let’s just say I’m still playing around with possibilities. We’ll probably use some green screen in places, especially for parts of the knife fight, but I guarantee no one’s going to be disappointed with the final results.”

>   Someone hollered his name down at the far end of the soundstage, past the Morganti ship.

  “Gotta go,” he said. “Hey, Lee, looking forward to working with you.” He took off at a fast clip, vanishing back into the shadowed reaches of the building.

  “He’s always in a hurry,” Herman commented. “I’ve been trying to teach him to slow down. Talented as hell, though. This is his first full-length feature.”

  Of course it is. I got the feeling if Herman could go back in time, hang out at Schwab’s Drugstore, and discover Lana Turner, he’d totally do it.

  We continued through the door into the middle hallway, then reached the open door to the makeup room just in time to hear a clattering sound as several somethings hit the floor, followed by a female voice.

  “I told you I don’t like any of those colors!” someone shouted, and I had a feeling I knew who it was. “Are you deaf or just stupid?” Herman and I exchanged looks. He took a long, deep breath and went inside. I followed, staying behind him and—hopefully—out of the line of fire.

  Four swivel chairs lined up in front of a long mirror hanging above a countertop running the length of the far wall. There was plenty of adjustable lighting, and a truly impressive makeup kit—one of those things that seems small and then unfolds into multiple sections. This one looked like it might grow up to be a Transformer. Tubes of lipstick were strewn across the countertop in front of the one occupied chair. A half-dozen or so lay scattered on the floor.

  Portia Lambert, already in costume, sat in one of the chairs. She wore khakis tucked into flat-heeled ankle boots and an olive-drab tank top. A nice enough figure, definitely rounder than the current craze for stick insects with boobs. Long dark hair, straight with bangs, the color a little too uniform to look natural. Big brown eyes with long lashes, frown lines in the forehead. A small straight nose. Thin lips. They might not be so thin, though, if they weren’t always clenched in an expression of perpetual dissatisfaction.

  Veruca Salt all grown up.

  Somebody didn’t get her an Oompa Loompa.

  Kyra picked the lipsticks off the floor, her own lips pressed into a thin line of displeasure.