The Spawn of Lilith

by Dana Fredsti

  Joe stood off to the side of the camera, reading his lines. His character Shaad was still on the Morganti ship at this point, talking to Jeanette from his bridge. The scene on that set would be filmed another day.

  “Oh my God,” Portia exclaimed in between takes. “If this jackass can’t stick to the script, why the hell did I bother memorizing my lines?”

  Joe—the jackass in question—didn’t seem offended by Portia’s outburst. If anything, he seemed amused by it. But we’d done an earlier read-through of the script, so he knew the lines. Why was he changing them now?

  “He’s doing it on purpose,” Eden whispered as if reading my mind.

  Breanna and Dan exchanged a few muttered words.

  “Joe,” Breanna said in a conciliatory tone. “Portia has a point. These lines, this dialogue is supposed to play off each line before it. Your improv is great—you always add a lot—but we really need you to stick to what’s written in this scene.”

  “You got it,” Joe said amiably. “Just thought I’d try a few things, but you’re right. This is one script that doesn’t need my help.”

  “Your help,” Portia said with a sneer. “I suppose that the other films you’ve worked on would’ve been shit without you.”

  Joe shrugged, not bothering to answer. The next take, however?

  Word perfect. Though Portia still found it in her to complain.

  “Now that you’ve managed to remember your lines,” she said with withering contempt, “would you mind picking up the pace? If you keep chewing up the scenery, the audience will forget my character completely.”

  Joe cocked his head to one side.

  “I don’t think you need my help with that,” he said.

  Oh, boy.

  Portia took off her character’s headset and threw it on the console in front of her.

  “That’s it!” she bellowed. “I have had it!” Lurching up, she shoved away from her console chair. Since it wasn’t secured to the floor, the chair flew backward and collided with Effie. Only Gaffer Paul’s quick reflexes saved her from crashing to the floor, mic and all.

  Portia just shoved her way past, stormed down the ladder, and off the set. I melted back into the shadows, staying out of her way until she’d slammed through the double doors, likely on her way to Herman’s office.

  “This is just great!” Jack exclaimed. “We budgeted in extra days for shooting, but at this rate it’ll never be enough.” He stood and headed for the ladder. “I’ve got to talk to Herman.”

  “You’ll probably run into Madame Diva,” Joe observed. “You know she’s gonna be raising hell. And whose idea was it to hire her again?”

  Jack flushed bright red, but still descended the ladder and hurried off. Everyone left on the set looked at one another.

  “Right. Looks like we have a break,” Connor said, putting aside the camera. “Lee, why don’t you and Darius show me the knife fight, so I can start working out angles and lighting? Anything to keep moving forward.”

  Joe nodded. “I’d like to see it, too.”

  Nodding, I trotted away to grab Darius from his usual perch by the coffee urn, then we hustled back to take advantage of the rare opportunity when the set was free and clear.

  Most of the centerpiece fight took place on the Bootes bridge, but parts of it moved to different areas of the ship, with Shaad blending in and out of the shadows, rendering Jeanette unable to anticipate his movements. Darius and I had done our best to stick to the appropriate dimensions when we’d blocked out the fight, but even with the close-quarters choreography we’d developed, putting it into action on the set was a game changer.

  A lot of the time you can cheat the angles, make something look dangerous, up close, and personal, when you’re really working at a safe distance. In close quarters like these though, it would be harder to cheat. Luckily we were both adherents to what I called “precision choreography.”

  If Darius said he was going to stab an inch to the right of my torso, I knew that’s where the tip of the blade would be—one inch away from the right side of my torso. And I didn’t have to worry about him randomly deciding to change the choreography. Shit like that was how people got hurt.

  Like moving an airbag sometime between rehearsal and the take, I thought wryly. No, working with Darius was like finding the perfect dance partner. Fencing with the Stars.

  We ran the fight sequence on the bridge. Connor and Joe stood out of the way and watched, Joe whistling in appreciation at some of the moves, especially when we got up to speed.

  “Now,” Joe said when we took a breather, “I’m, uh, not really going to have to do any of those moves, right? Because I’m thinking that would end up with someone in the hospital.”

  “No.” Darius folded his arms. “Close-ups only. Nothing else.”

  “And we’re using rubber knives for most of the fighting,” I added. “It would take some work to punch a hole in someone with one of those.”

  Joe shook his head. “Trust me, kiddo, if anyone could do it, I could. I’m good at many things, but all this fighting stuff? I’m one actor who doesn’t want to do his own damn stunts.”

  “Can I have everyone’s attention?”

  We all turned. Herman stood at the edge of the set, coffee cup in one hand. He looked tense, and his other hand rested on the back of a chair. I suspected he was using it for support. Jack stood at Herman’s shoulder.

  Portia?

  Nowhere in sight.

  “Okay,” Herman said, “I’m going to apologize in advance for this, because I know some of you may have already made plans based on the original shooting schedule. Unfortunately, Portia has experienced a couple of health issues—”

  “Mental health issues,” Joe muttered.

  “—and we feel it would be better for her to take a day or two off to recuperate. In the meantime, we’d like to move up the scenes involving Shaad and Rheyza on the Morganti ship, as well as film the fight between Jeanette and Shaad. In fact, maybe we should do that tomorrow. We can get the close-ups when Portia’s back. This way we’ll be able to make some headway on the shooting schedule and hopefully stay on track. Lee, Joe, Darius… How do you all feel about this?”

  “Works for me,” Joe said.

  Darius grunted and nodded.

  “Me, too,” I said.

  The tension on Herman’s face dissolved.

  “Thank you,” he said quietly. “You have no idea how much I appreciate this.”

  “Aw, shucks,” Joe said with exaggerated humbleness.

  Herman smiled. “Connor, Paul? Let’s sit down and figure out the new shooting schedule for the next few days. I also want to check with Jaden, and how soon he’ll be ready with the FX for the ritual scene.”

  The Tymons exchanged concerned looks.

  “I thought we agreed to save that scene for the last day of the shoot,” Breanna said with a frown.

  “That was the plan,” Herman agreed, “but sooner would be preferable. We’ll need to let Jaden be the final judge.”

  “Did I hear my name?”

  Jaden appeared behind him as if summoned, a plate of raw veggies, hummus, and Cheetos in one hand and a can of Coke in the other. Herman quickly filled him in on Portia’s mini-hiatus and the proposed changes in the shooting schedule.

  “How soon do you think you’ll be ready for the ritual scene?”

  Jaden frowned. “I’m thinking I need another few days before I’ll have the effects under control. I’d like to try another test run or two first, but I’ll do my best to get the fine-tuning hammered out in about a week.”

  “That long?” Herman didn’t look happy. “Any way you can speed it up?”

  “I’ll do my best,” Jaden said. “But this isn’t something you want me to rush. Trust me.”

  * * *

  Darius and I ran the knife fight for the rest of the afternoon, under the watchful eyes of Connor and Paul, who took notes on angles and lighting. We wore full costumes for the rehearsals, to make sur
e we’d accounted for them properly.

  The fight incorporated a lot of hand-to-hand, as well, with Jeanette getting thrown against various hard surfaces. By the time we’d finished for the day, I sported an impressive collection of bruises, despite strategic padding.

  Totally worth it. It felt so good to be doing what I did best.

  Even Connor looked at me with something like respect. “That is going to be fun to film,” he said without any of his usual supercilious snark. I flashed him a quick smile before heading toward the restroom to freshen up a bit.

  I’d stayed at Eden’s apartment the last few nights, leaving my Saturn parked in the Dobell Studios lot. It made the early-morning call time a lot easier to face. Since she, Kyra, and I had plans to go out to Ocean’s End for drinks tonight, it also meant I could indulge in a drink or two without worrying about the long drive home.

  Even better, I could pretend I had my own place again. I’d missed that.

  On the way to the restroom, I went to craft services for another bottle of water. The elephant doors were open, letting in the last hour or so of light before the sun set around eight. The sun’s fading rays only penetrated ten feet or so into the soundstage. The gloom seemed to swallow the light before it could reach any further.

  I found Eden at the table, chatting with Ben, Joe, and Angel and helping Kat clean up the food and get things ready for the next morning.

  “Ready to go?” Eden smiled brightly, face scrubbed clean except for a little bit of lipstick.

  “Give me about fifteen minutes to get changed and I’ll meet you in the lobby, ’kay?” I grabbed a bottle of water, turning to head back to Wardrobe when I noticed Portia walking across the soundstage toward a side door that led out to the back of the lot. She looked tired and miserable.

  I knew I’d regret it, but I couldn’t stop myself.

  “Portia!” I called.

  If she heard my voice, she ignored it.

  “Portia, wait a sec!” I turned up the volume and hurried across the cement floor, catching her just as she reached the door. She stopped, one hand on the door handle.

  “Portia—” I started.

  “What?” She cut me off, her voice a whip crack of impatience.

  “Look,” I said awkwardly. “I know you’re not feeling great, but a few of us are going out for drinks and… I thought maybe you’d like to join us.”

  She stood there for a moment, considering my words. I thought she might actually say yes. That she just needed someone to reach out to her, make her feel welcome.

  Stupid me.

  Portia slowly turned and looked me up and down with a sneer. “You have got to be kidding,” she said without bothering to hide her contempt. “I don’t waste my time with the help.”

  My face flushed with anger and I held up my hands in a gesture of defeat.

  “Fine,” I snapped. “I give up. Go do whatever it is you do. See you in a few days.” With that I turned and stomped away, trying to ignore how long the pause was before she opened the door and left the building.

  By the time I’d reached wardrobe, the flush of anger had faded away, leaving me with a mixture of frustration and pity. That woman was her own worst enemy.

  “Hey, hon,” our wardrobe supervisor said. A woman of few words, Joan was comfortably round, with the kind of breasts described as “pillowy.” She favored vaguely anachronistic rayon dresses in rich, jewel tones. Kind of Guinevere meets Arwen.

  I shimmied out of my costume, handing it over with an apologetic smile.

  “This is gonna need to be washed,” I said. “Fight rehearsal.”

  “Compared to Darius’s wardrobe, yours smells like roses,” she assured me.

  I grinned. “Good to know.”

  I threw on jeans, a violet T-shirt, and purple Converse high-tops, retrieved my bag from my little locker, and went next door to see if Kyra was ready to go.

  “Give me five minutes and I’ll be ready,” she said as she gathered a couple of stray lipsticks off the counter and put them in her makeup kit.

  “Cool. I need to put my knife back in the props room, so how ’bout I meet you and Eden out front?”

  Kyra nodded and continued cleaning up.

  Having said that, I realized I’d forgotten to pull the knife and sheath off the belt of Jeanette’s costume. Back to Wardrobe I went, where Joan was just about finished putting everything away for the night.

  “You need something else, Lee?”

  “Just checking to see if I left the knife in my costume.”

  Joan flashed me a friendly smile and continued with her work.

  I located Jeanette’s wardrobe rack and rummaged through it. The belt was there, as was the sheath, but no knife.

  Shit.

  I must have left it on set.

  I hurried back into the soundstage. Most of the lights were already off. Even craft service was shut down, the elephant doors now closed. Three of the ceiling bulbs were lit—two on either end of the soundstage, and one shining some light in between the two ships. Not a lot of illumination to work with. Part of me was tempted to wait and just retrieve the knife the following day, but Mike wouldn’t leave until all the props were returned. So I got my ass in gear and climbed up onto the Bootes.

  Moving slowly, I made my way to the bridge, letting my eyes adjust to the very dim light and wishing all the way I’d thought to grab a flashlight. Reaching the console, I ran my hand over its surface in case my eyes missed what I was looking for.

  Nothing.

  I did the same with the chairs and came away equally empty-handed, heaving a frustrated sigh. Mike wasn’t gonna like it if I lost one of his props.

  This was the only part of the set where I’d had my knife out of its sheath. It had to be here. Frustrated, I tried my luck again on the console, this time searching more slowly and thoroughly.

  My patience was rewarded when I felt the familiar shape of the rubber handle under the top ledge of the console. When I tried to grab it, however, I knocked it forward an inch or so—enough to send it tipping off behind the console, where it hit the ground with a muffled clatter.

  “Shit,” I muttered, dropping to my knees and crawling under the console to see if I could retrieve it relatively easily. No dice, of course. I had to wriggle around to the side of the console and reach between it and the wall, the space just wide enough for my arm to fit back there. I tried not to think of spiders or other creepy-crawlies.

  Ah hah, I thought as my fingertips grazed something solid. I couldn’t quite get a grip on it, though, and I didn’t want to push the knife further in, to where I’d need a broom handle or something to get the damn thing out.

  I turned my body a little more sideways, allowing me to slip my arm in another half an inch or so, just enough to grasp the tip of the handle with my thumb and forefinger. I tried to pull my arm out and it wouldn’t budge, the meat of my shoulder wedged in between the wall and the back of the console.

  Great, I thought. All I needed was Connor to come along and find me stuck there, my butt being the first thing he’d see. The thought of my humiliation was enough to motivate me to give a single hard tug backward, successfully extracting myself and the knife—although I did leave some skin off the back of my hand.

  “Ouch,” I said, untwisting myself from behind the console.

  A sudden noise made me freeze, halfway to my feet. A low rasping noise. The sound a snake makes when its scales slither across the desert sands.

  Slowly, quietly, I straightened up to a standing position and listened. Even with my eyes adjusted to the dimness, when I looked past the bridge, I still couldn’t see anything but dark on dark. My noise wrinkled as I caught a faint whiff of what smelled like sulfur. Not just sulfur, though, but also something similar to the paint used on the Morganti set.

  Then there was the smell of rotting garbage, and the very air felt heavy, thicker than it should be. The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end even as the skin beneath them itched.

/>   The noise came again, from somewhere back in the Bootes set, this time followed by sibilant whispers.

  Something was back there.

  Screw this.

  I had no intention of finding out what. Scrambling down the ladder to the cement floor, I skipped a step or two in my haste. When I reached the bottom, I paused briefly to listen.

  Nothing.

  The sounds—if there’d been any in the first place—seemed to have stopped. I still smelled a weird ozone-like tang in the air, though, which grew stronger as I hurried past the Morganti ship. As I neared the back of the soundstage, it became apparent that the smell originated from behind the closed door of the FX department.

  No light penetrated the crack under the door.

  I thought briefly of knocking, checking to see if everything was okay and that Jaden hadn’t knocked himself out with some weird mix of chemicals. I even took a step toward the door. A dry, rustling noise behind a stack of wooden pallets stopped me in my tracks.

  Screw it.

  Sure he’d gone home, I practically ran back to the props department, startling Michael when I burst through the door, all out of breath.

  “Here you go,” I said, slapping the knife on his desk.

  He raised an eyebrow. “You okay?”

  “I didn’t want you waiting on me.”

  Not really a lie. More like a half truth.

  “Well, I am ready to get out of here, so thank you.” Michael put the knife in its drawer behind the desk and stood up. “Give me half a sec and I’ll walk out with you.”

  I was more than happy to wait, even though part of me wondered when, exactly, I’d become afraid of the dark.

  * * *

  Portia walked out to the Star Waggon. Her driver wasn’t due for another few hours, but she sure as hell didn’t want to go out for drinks with her stunt double or any of those other losers—especially the bimbo playing Zoe.