The Spawn of Lilith

by Dana Fredsti

  A very small part of her, stuffed far back in a rarely used dusty cupboard of her brain, wanted very much to go out with Lee and the others. That small voice had protested when she’d shot Lee’s suggestion down. Portia had told it to fuck off.

  She heaved a martyred sigh. Why had she agreed to do this stupid film?

  She knew the answer to that.

  Money.

  Of which she had very little. Why else would she be staying in a trailer—even a nice one—if she had a place to live?

  She’d managed to keep secret the fact that she could no longer afford her Hollywood bungalow by renting it out to Frank, an aspiring actor who also worked for a small limo company. Frank was happy to be discreet in exchange for cheap rent, a good address, and the occasional photo op together.

  Extremely hunky and very gay, Frank was interested in playing romantic leads and not quite willing to come of the closet. Being seen with Portia did them both some good.

  Maybe he’d even let her live in her old house for a month or so when Pale Dreamer wrapped and her Star Waggon went away.

  In the meantime, her driver would continue to pick her up, take her to one of several restaurants that still treated her like a star, and then bring her back to her trailer after everyone else had left for the night.

  Another small part of her realized that no one really noticed, or cared one way or the other.

  Portia made her way to the trailer’s well-appointed kitchen and pulled a bottle of red wine down from one of the cupboards. She didn’t bother looking at the label and didn’t really care what the varietal was, or the vintage. She didn’t care how much it cost. She just wanted something to drink.

  This particular bottle had a screw top, which made it even more appealing. No fucking corkscrew needed. Opening it with a quick twist of her wrist, she poured about a third into a generously sized wine glass and took a sip. Not great, but it was drinkable. Got even better after she’d drunk half of the glass in one hefty swallow.

  Better top it off, Portia thought, and she did so.

  Then she sat and thought about the movie. As much as she hated to admit it, she liked the script. It was okay. Maybe even better than okay… and Dobell seemed to have his shit together.

  But Jack Garvey? What a joke.

  Why the hell he’d wanted to shoot a scene of her walking away from the camera was beyond her. Could he waste any more of her time, or the audience’s? They paid to see her face.

  Okay, maybe they paid to see her ass, too—or used to—but ever since a particularly unkind review of her last picture had included a remark about her expanding backside, Portia refused to be photographed from that particular angle.

  No, her stunt double would actually have to earn her salary. Not like there was anything difficult about the stunts Lee had to do in the movie. A knife fight? Anyone could do that.

  The only thing that mattered was the power to call the shots in life. To snap your fingers and have your wishes granted. Anything else was unacceptable. She’d learned that from her asshole parents.

  Still, she knew on some level she was being unreasonable. Knew every time she behaved like a spoiled bitch she risked never getting hired again. And yet she just couldn’t seem to stop. Always pushing boundaries, but when someone tried to set any of their own, she dug in her heels.

  Topping off her glass again, she stretched out on the small but comfy couch near the trailer door, made sure the blackout curtains blocked the parking lot lights, and did her best to relax. She wondered what it would be like to be satisfied with her life for once. Wondered what it would take to make her happy.

  She took another sip.

  The temperature in the trailer suddenly dropped.

  “What the fuck?”

  She looked up at the thermostat above her head. She specifically requested that the temperature stay at a steady 75°. Even as she watched the gauge, it dropped from seventy to sixty to fifty degrees. The descent slowed at that point, but still crept, finally stopping at the forty-degree mark. Not exactly cold enough for ice to form on the walls, but it sure felt that way.

  Portia sat upright, spilling wine on her designer sweatpants and the couch.

  “Dammit!”

  This was the last time she’d work on anything with a “moderate” budget. If they couldn’t afford to get her a decent trailer, then they couldn’t afford to have her on their project. She stalked back to the bedroom, grabbed a sweater from the pile of clothes on the bed, and pulled it on over her T-shirt.

  The lights in the trailer flickered. The overhead light in the living room went out.

  Then the smell hit. Nothing could have prepared her for the stench that suddenly filled the trailer. If someone had taken dead animals, shit, spoiled food, and every other foul thing she could think of, dumped them in a metal pot and left it out in the sun for a few hours, it couldn’t have smelled that bad.

  Portia gagged, the wine she’d drunk bubbling up like acid in her throat. She threw up before she could stop herself, vomit splashing on the couch.

  Stumbling to her feet, she groped for the handle of the door, fingers numbed by the increasingly frigid air, wanting nothing more than to get outside and away from the horrible smell.

  Yellowish-red lights blinked on in the hallway. They went out. Then came on again. Almost like—

  Like eyes opening and closing.

  A low liquid noise—a cross between a purr and a growl—came from that direction. Portia backed away, the back of her knees hitting the couch. She sat down involuntarily, vaguely aware she’d landed directly in her own puke.

  Another sound emanated from the shadows under the dining room table. It sounded like water trying to find its way down a clogged drain.

  Maybe that’s all it is, she thought. The drains. A faulty septic tank. She’d fire the shit out of someone for not taking care of that. They knew better. They—

  One of the shadows reached out and swiped her across one forearm. Pain flared instantly. Four cuts opened up as if by magic, blood flowing freely and dripping down onto the carpeted floor.

  Outrage overrode the pain.

  Who the fuck let an animal into the trailer?

  Another set of claws raked across her right calf, the pain so intense she thought she might puke again. She looked down to see the fabric of her sweats shredded, blood oozing out of each tear.

  Portia had never been a coward. She didn’t have the time or patience for fear. Even now, as the shadows around her took on a life of their own, her overriding emotion was rage.

  How could this be happening? Things like this weren’t supposed to happen. She hurt other people before they had the chance to hurt her.

  The lights went out.

  * * *

  Ocean’s End was hopping when Kyra, Eden, and I arrived—standing room only, with customers lined up two and three deep the length of the bar. A lot of the patrons had taken off their day faces and were letting their true natures show. Kind of like taking off a tight business suit and slipping into sweats and a T-shirt.

  We got lucky and scored a booth tucked against the wall across from the bar just as a group of tipsy sea nymphs got up to leave, their hems dripping water in their wake. I thought I recognized one of them from my first visit to the bar.

  “I’ll get the drinks,” I offered as Kyra and Eden grabbed some napkins to soak up the puddles under the table. I squeezed my way through the crowd until I found myself at the bar in front of Manny.

  He had some help tonight, a tall, slender girl who looked like she’d taken a wrong turn on her way to Rivendell. Large lavender eyes and a silken mane of silvery blonde hair that fell below the small of her back. She made jeans and a tank top look like formal wear, her movements quick and graceful. She projected an aura of calm, and Manny’s eye color, currently a vibrant turquoise, held steady despite the hectic pace.

  He gave a nod when he saw me. “Dragon’s Milk, then.” It wasn’t a question.

  I grinned. “That’ll do
me. I also need a Butter chardonnay and a mojito.”

  “I’ll put this on Eden’s tab, then.”

  I shook my head and slapped my now balance-free credit card on the bar. “This round’s on me.” Manny gave a satisfied nod, as if he’d asked a question and liked the answer. I felt like I’d passed some test I hadn’t known I was taking.

  Somehow I made it back to our booth without spilling the drinks. Kyra’s eyes widened when I set her birdbath of a mojito in front of her.

  “Holy shit,” she said.

  “Manny does do generous pours,” Eden agreed.

  I raised my beer. “Here’s to two stress-free and Portia-free days.” We clinked glasses carefully and drank.

  “Omigod, this is the best mojito I’ve ever had,” Kyra moaned with the kind of ecstasy normally reserved for an orgasm or chocolate.

  “Is this your first time here?” I asked.

  “Second. I went on a date with one of the other contestants from Face-Off a few months ago, and he brought me here.”

  “I take it that it didn’t work out,” Eden speculated.

  Kyra snorted. “Not even. His mom was a shifter. Hyena. He totally inherited her laugh. And the shit he thought was funny?” She gave a little shudder. “One date was more than enough. There aren’t enough mojitos in the world, y’know?”

  “Eden? Eden Carmel?”

  The three of us looked up to find a male humanoid standing in front of the table. Like a lot of the other customers, he’d chosen to show his true nature. Dark-gold skin, blood-red corneas, the “whites” of his eyes ebony. Nose so short it would have to grow an inch or so to earn the title of “snub.” Thinning gray hair pulled back in a man-bun. Short, slump-shouldered, pot-bellied, and bandy-legged. His suit looked expensive, probably tailored to make the best of a bad deal. He leaned over close to Eden, showing sharp yellow teeth in a smile that managed to be creepy and smarmy at the same time.

  “When are you going to give that has-been Lupin the boot and let me give you the representation you deserve?”

  Eden gave a coquettish laugh. “You’re such a tease, Marty.”

  Marty reached out and draped his fingers over her shoulder, where they sat like pudgy gold worms.

  “Just say the word, Eden, and I’ll do more than tease.”

  Ugh. My skin crawled as if it was trying to leave without me.

  Somehow Eden kept her smile in place, possibly because she opted to drink some chardonnay in lieu of another response. So Marty gave Kyra a dismissive once-over and then turned his attention to me. I didn’t like the speculative expression as he looked me up and down. Like I was for sale and he was considering the purchase.

  “Who’s this?” he purred. His voice, no doubt meant to seduce, grated on my nerves, the auditory equivalent of biting on tinfoil. Looking into his eyes was like looking at burning coals in little black caves. The scar on my neck twitched.

  “This is Lee Striga,” Eden replied when it became obvious I wasn’t going to answer. “She’s a stuntwoman.”

  He nodded, eyes narrowing in recognition.

  “All healed up, are we?” The words, meant to sound solicitous, came across as vaguely menacing.

  “Yup,” I said, offering the barest of nods.

  “She’s with MTA,” Eden added with a certain amount of pleasure.

  He scowled. “Faustina Corbin. Well, when you get tired of her games, you think about giving me a call.”

  I took another sip of beer by way of response. I didn’t have Eden’s patience for Hollywood politics. Marty’s scowl deepened. Before he could say anything else, however, someone called his name from the front door of the bar. He looked up, his expression brightening.

  “Gotta run, kids. Seriously, Eden, think about ditching Lupin.”

  “Uh-huh!” Eden gave a little wave as Marty hurried off to greet the newcomer, his feet making sharp clip-clop noises on the wooden flooring. I snuck a peek. Yup, hooves.

  “An agent, huh?”

  “A real bottom feeder,” Eden replied, shaking her head. “You’d think a Scaenicus demon would be a little more savvy and a lot less pushy.”

  “A Hollywood agent who’s actually a demon?” Kyra shook her head. “What are the odds of that?”

  “Fifty-fifty,” Eden and I said at the same time.

  The three of us cracked up.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  No Portia meant relatively little drama on the set.

  Jack still argued with Dan and Breanna over the satanic associations of the Morganti race and pushed for a clear-cut God-versus-Lucifer resolution. Kyra and Jaden got into a couple of spats over the Morganti—they fell into a gray area between FX and makeup. Sans diva, however, it was the difference between a category five hurricane and a quick and sudden storm.

  The first day we succeeded in filming the entire knife fight minus the close-ups. Connor and Paul transitioned smoothly from shot to shot with an ease that showed how efficient they could be when not hampered at every turn.

  Day two we shot some scenes that included Jake and Zoe. I did my butt-doubling schtick when needed. Things moved over to the Morganti bridge for the second half of the shooting schedule, and I got to watch Joe and Angel try to out-evil each other while still succeeding at being creepy-ass villains. It made me appreciate the script all over again, and Jack actually got to direct with assurance and some skill.

  It was therefore with a distinct lack of enthusiasm that Eden and I went to set the day Portia was due back. When we arrived, there was a funereal air hanging over the craft service tables, indicating that everyone else much felt the same way. She was still nowhere to be seen, however, so I grabbed some coffee and headed over to Makeup.

  * * *

  “Where the hell is Portia? She’s more than an hour late!”

  Jack looked at his watch and then around the set as if expecting his missing star to suddenly appear.

  She didn’t.

  We were filming a scene where Jake and Jeanette first enter the Morganti ship through the connected airlocks. Ben was there, already in costume and makeup. In my stand-in role, I was helping Connor and Paul set up the lights for the shot. Peter and Brad—our production assistants—stood by waiting for tasks to be assigned.

  “Have you seen her?” Jack glared at me as if somehow I was responsible for Portia’s absence.

  “Uh, no.”

  “Well, you’re her stunt double.”

  Seriously?

  “And your point?” I glared back at him, annoyed. “Last time I checked, my job description didn’t include playing nanny.” It was a little bitchy, but I was already going far beyond the call of duty—and my contract.

  “It’s fine, Jack. She’ll be here.” As if by magic, Herman—the talent whisperer himself—appeared from the shadows, all smiles and reassurances. He patted Jack on one shoulder, as if soothing a high-strung horse.

  “Well, someone needs to go haul Portia out of her trailer,” Jack insisted.

  Peter and Brad looked at each another, their lack of enthusiasm painfully obvious via their lack of volunteering. Herman sighed, and I knew he was about to go do the dirty work himself.

  He looked tired, and frail, as if something was eating him from the inside out. It worried me. Could it be cancer? Surely he was undergoing treatment. Part of me wanted to ask him, but I knew it was none of my business.

  What I could do, though, was shoulder this particular burden.

  “I’ll go check on her,” I said.

  Herman gave me a grateful smile. I, in turn, shot Peter and Jake a disgusted look.

  “You guys are so getting white feathers.”

  They just stared at me blankly. Ben, on the other hand, was old enough to get the reference and chuckled.

  Good enough for me.

  Passing through the elephant doors, I went to beard Portia in her overpriced den. Her chauffeur’s town car was parked next to it, and I peeked inside.

  Empty.

  Most likely they
were both inside the trailer. Oh, man… I had enough problems already, and I so didn’t want to be the person who interrupted her while she was boinking her driver.

  Taking a deep breath, I climbed the steps and rapped sharply on the trailer door. It opened on its own, moving an inch or two away from my knuckles, and instantly I felt like I wanted to vomit as a rancid smell floated out through the crack.

  Ugh.

  It had to be the trailer’s septic tank. Maybe that’s why the driver was inside—to check whatever was broken. It also might explain why Portia was late. So I pushed the door open a little bit more.

  “Hello?”

  No answer.

  “Portia? You there?”

  I rapped again, just to be polite. The door opened further and I stuck my head inside, instantly regretting it as the stench grew more powerful—raw sewage and something else I couldn’t quite identify.

  “Portia?”

  My voice sounded flat in the thick air. I waited a few seconds for a response. The only sound was an insistent buzzing.

  Flies?

  Very reluctantly, I took a couple of steps inside. The blackout curtains were closed and the lights were on, even though it was daytime. The soles of my shoes stuck to the carpeted floor, lifting away with a slight ripping sound, like pieces of Velcro being pulled apart.

  Weird.

  I took a few more tentative steps, wincing as the carpet suddenly squished beneath my feet. I glanced down… and froze in place.

  Reddish-brown stains spattered the neutral-beige carpet, dried in some places and still wet in others. Blood oozed out from beneath my feet. My horrified gaze traveled up to the walls and ceiling, which looked as though someone put carmine paint in a blender without a lid and turned it on “high.”

  Even worse were the chunks of partially clothed meat scattered across the floor, couch, and other surfaces. There was a small, feminine hand lying on the kitchenette counter top, and I recognized the sapphire ring it wore.

  My stomach began to churn.

  Mixed up with the smaller, more feminine pieces were some bits I could tell came from Portia’s driver. A leg in the tattered remnants of black slacks. A partial hand, thumb, and fingers, thick and large-knuckled.