by Tanya Huff
Flame.
“Keep rolling!” That was Pam’s voice. “Arra, what the hell’s going on?”
There shouldn’t be flames, not yet.
Daniel wasn’t out of the car.
Couldn’t get out of the car, Tony realized as he started to run.
He felt more than saw Henry speed by him and by the time he arrived by the driver’s side door, the crumpled metal was screaming a surrender as the door opened. Dropping down to one knee, he allowed Daniel to grab onto his shoulder and, backing up, dragged him from the car and out through the billowing smoke.
The rest of the safety crew arrived as the stunt co-coordinator gained his feet, free hand waving away any additional help. He stared at the car for a long moment, brow furrowed under the masking dreadlocks then he visibly shook it off. “Goddamned fucking door jammed! Everyone back off and let it blow.”
“Daniel . . .”
“Don’t worry about it, Tony. I’m fine.” Guiding the younger man away from the car, he raised his voice, “I said, let it blow!”
The explosion was, as all Arra’s explosions were, perfect. A lot of flash, not much smoke, the car outlined within the fire.
For a heartbeat, the shadows held their ground against the flames. A heartbeat later, they fled.
And a heartbeat beyond that, Tony glanced away from the wreck to find Henry beside him, smelling of accelerant. “He was muttering about something touching him. Something cold.”
“Daniel?”
The vampire nodded.
“Something touched him before you got there?”
Henry glanced down at his hands. “I didn’t touch him. He didn’t even know I was there.”
The light from the fire painted the night orange and gold as far back as the director’s monitors. It looked as though Daniel, helmet in his hands, sweat plastering his short hair to his head, was telling Pam what happened. Leaving Henry staring at the burning car, Tony headed for the craft services table—well within eavesdropping range.
“. . . hardly see the end of the ramp, then I could hardly see at all. I thought it might be some kind of weird fog except it came with me when I rolled.”
“I didn’t see anything.”
“I didn’t exactly see anything either,” Daniel pointed out acerbically. “That’s kind of my point.”
Tony waited for him to mention the touch. He didn’t. “It was probably just the fumes from the fire retardant affecting my eyes.”
“Probably.”
It sounded like a pact. An agreed-upon explanation.
Because what else could it have been?
As Daniel moved away, Arra came into view behind Pam’s shoulder. She looked terrified.
Not for Daniel.
Not about the part of the stunt that had nearly gone wrong.
Given her expression, Tony’d be willing to bet serious money that she’d forgotten both Daniel and the stunt.
Tony found himself quietly murmuring, “Apparition of evil,” as Pam finally yelled “Cut!” and Daniel’s crew moved in with the fire extinguishers.
Two
“TONY”
He glanced up from his sides to find a sprite-like figure with enormous blue eyes attempting to both stare at him and simultaneously watch everything going on inside the soundstage.
“Hi, I’m Veronica. I’m the new office PA. I just started. Amy sent me to tell you . . . Oh, my God, that’s Lee Nicholas, isn’t it? He’s my . . . I mean he’s just so . . .”
And the sprite devolved into yet another new hire too starstruck to last—although Tony had to agree with the sentiment. Lee was sitting on the edge of Raymond Dark’s desk, one foot on the floor, one foot swinging, khaki Dockers pulled tight across both thighs as he waited to do his reaction shots. Tony had been doing his best not to look. He’d discovered early on that he could watch Lee or he could do his job, but he couldn’t do both.
Taking a deep, strengthening breath, he turned his back on the set. “Amy sent you to tell me . . . ?”
“What?” Veronica’s already wide eyes widened further as though they could encompass both the vision that was Lee Nicholas and the more mundane view of the person she was actually supposed to be dealing with. Tony could have told her it wouldn’t work, but he doubted she’d listen. “Oh. Right. Mr. Bane wants to see you in his office . . .”
Peter’s voice cut her off. “Let’s go right away, please! Can I have a bell!”
As the bell rang out, Tony took hold of Veronica’s arm, his fingers nearly encircling her tiny bicep, and tugged her gently away from the set. “Mr. Bane wants to see me in his office . . . ?” he murmured.
“About last . . .”
“Quiet, please!”
All color blanched from Veronica’s cheeks and Tony had to fight a snicker, as he and half a dozen others echoed the first half of Peter’s injunction, their voices bouncing around the soundstage. First day on the job, he’d been afraid to breathe after the bell and had stood frozen like a particularly geeky statue until one of the sound crew had come up behind him and knocked his knees out.
Maintaining his grip, he tugged her across the terrace, as the assistant director yelled, “Let’s settle, people!”
Two sets away from the action and still moving, he said, “Mr. Bane wants to see me about?”
“Last . . .”
“Rolling!”
“. . . night.”
Tony laid a finger against his mouth as the second assistant camera called the slate.
“Scene eight, take four.”
Veronica jumped at the crack.
“Mark!”
And she jumped again as Peter snapped, “Action!”
Even the muttering in Tony’s ear jack stopped. They were far enough from the actual set to allow quiet movement, so he continued pulling her across the concrete floor, past the back walls scribbled over with cryptic construction notes to the line of small dressing rooms for the auxiliary cast.
Most production companies with similar space limitations used a second location trailer parked close to an outside door. Chester Bane refused to pay for the power necessary to keep one running and had the construction crew throw up a row of cubbyholes against the back wall. Each unpainted “dressing room” was six by six, with a padded bench across the back, a full-length mirror, a row of hooks, and a shelf. The whole thing looked not unlike the “private rooms” in some of the sleazier bathhouses. The only thing missing: a dented condom dispenser.
Gesturing for Veronica to remain quiet, Tony scratched lightly on the door marked with Catherine scrawled across a strip of duct tape.
The door opened.
Darkness spilled out.
Tony leaped back and, heart pounding, found himself pinned under the questioning eyes of two confused women.
Catherine’s shadow stretched from her feet to his.
Dredging up a smile, he flashed a fifteen minute sign, nodded as she did, and watched as she closed her shadow back in with her. Wondering if he should say something. Do something.
About what?
Shadows?
I’ve got to start getting more sleep. He waved Veronica in front of him, pulled her back as she nearly stepped on the edge of a new hardwood floor—where the hardwood was paint and the actual floor was plywood. The art director, faking slightly salacious delft tiles by the fireplace, turned and flashed him an emphatic thumbs-up.
Life had been a variation on that theme all morning.
By the time he’d hit the craft services truck at seven, the genny op had been embellishing the story of him pulling Daniel from the burning car for almost an hour. No one had made a huge fuss—well, no one except Everett although that was pretty much a given regardless—but most of the crew had taken a moment to say something.
“Jaysus, Tony, you couldn’t of let the bugger fry? I’m after owing him fifty bucks.”
Under other circumstances he wouldn’t have minded being the center of attention, but he hadn’t actually done much. Sin
ce he couldn’t explain that Henry had yanked the car door open, all he could do was hope that something else provided a new focus for people with long stretches of too much time on their hands—and provide it sooner rather than later.
Just as they reached the exit, the red light went off and as he waved Veronica through, the voices started up in his ear again.
“. . . redress, reload, redo . . . let’s go, people, we haven’t got all day.”
Unhooking his radio’s microphone from the neck of his T-shirt, he waited for a break in the tumbling current of voices. “Adam, it’s Tony. CB wants to see me, but I gave Catherine her heads-up on the way. Over.”
His head murmured soon at him.
Soon?
“Yeah, great.” The first assistant director turned his head from the microphone and carried on a low-voiced conversation as Tony followed Veronica along the hall, envying the way she could move through the costumes without actually touching them. She was what? Ninety pounds soaking wet? “Listen, Tony, while you’re passing, tell Everett that Lee’s got that cowlick thing happening again and we need him in here.”
“Roger, that.” He holstered and peeled off into makeup to deliver his message, emerging to find Veronica waiting for him practically quivering.
“Amy said Mr. Bane wanted to see you right away!”
Tony frowned and shook his head. What was her damage? He’d been moving toward the office since she’d given him the message. “You’re going to give yourself an ulcer if you don’t calm down.”
Wide eyes widened impossibly further. “It’s my first day!”
“And all I’m saying is that you need to pace yourself.”
As they emerged out into the pandemonium of the office, Amy stood, leaned out around Rachel, and beckoned them over to her desk without pausing her conversation. “. . . that’s right, two hundred gallons of #556. Well, it might be battleship gray on your side of the border but ours are more a morning-after green. Yeah, great. Thanks. New supplier in Seattle,” she said, hanging up. “Charlie knew someone who’d cut us a deal.”
“Who’s . . . ?” Veronica began.
“One of the construction crew.” Her gaze switching to Tony, she added, “Hail the conquering hero! So, for an encore, do you think you could save Canadian television?”
“No.”
“Way to stop and consider it. Fine. Veronica, you’ve got dry cleaning to pick up. Here’s the slips.” Amy shoved a sheaf of pink paper into the new PA’s hand and closed her fingers around it. “And if Mr. Palimpter tries to make you pay, remind him that we’re on monthly billing and if he wants to know where his payment is for last the two months, tell him you’re just the messenger and he’s not to shoot you.”
“Is he likely to?”
“Probably not.”
“Doesn’t the dry cleaner deliver?” Tony asked, abandoning an attempt to read what looked like a legal document upside down.
Amy snorted. “Not for about two months now, funny thing. Oh, and while you’re out grab two grande Caffe Americanos, a tall cinnamon-spiced mochaccino, and three tall, bold of the day unless they’re Sulawesi, then get two of them and one decaf. Don’t panic, I wrote it down.” She snatched a ripped corner of paper clipped to a twenty up off her desk. “I had to print kind of small, but you should be able to read it.”
“Unless they’re Sulwhat’s?”
“Sulawesi. Go! And smile, you’re in show business! So . . .” As Veronica ran for the door, she sat back down and flipped a strand of fuchsia hair back off her face. “. . . Zev’s still in with Mr. Bane, which gives you time to tell me all about last night.”
Tony shrugged. “What’s to tell? I’m just not as used to this stuff as Daniel’s guys, so I panicked first.” Four years with Henry had taught him the most believable way to lie usually involved the truth. “You think it’s safe sending her for coffee? Isn’t that how you lost the last one?” Deflecting attention he’d always been good at.
“Trial by fire. If she can handle Starbucks at lunchtime, she can handle . . . CB Productions, can I help you? One moment please.” Jabbing at the hold button, she leaned across her desk and yelled, “Barb, line three!”
A faint, “Thanks, sweetie,” drifted out of the accounting office.
“Intercom busted again?”
“Still. Too bad it wasn’t Lee in the car. You could have given him mouth to mouth.”
“It was a car crash; he wasn’t drowning.”
Amy looked arch. “So?”
Before Tony could think of a suitable reply, the boss’ door opened and Zev emerged carrying a stack of CDs.
“Well?” Amy asked.
“He wants Wagner.”
“Under the stunt? Isn’t that a little . . . Wagnerian?”
Zev grinned. “Actually, yes.” Spotting Tony, he flushed and nodded toward the office. “CB says you can go right in.”
The static in Tony’s radio seemed to be making patterns that were almost words.
“Tony?”
He flicked at his ear jack and shot Zev half a reassuring smile as he started toward the open door. “It’s nothing.”
“If you’re sure . . .”
“Oh, yeah.” No. Maybe.
To give CB credit, he’d spent no more cash on his office than he had on anyone else’s. The vertical blinds had come with the building, the rug that covered the industrial tile floor was the same cheap knockoff they used in Raymond Dark’s study, and the furniture had been jazzed up by the set builders to look less like Wal-Mart and more like Ethan Allan. The tropical fish tank and the three surviving fish had been used as a prop in episode two.
Not that it mattered because at six six and close to three hundred pounds, Chester Bane dominated any room he was in.
As Tony stepped onto the rug, he lifted his head slowly.
Like a lion at feeding time . . .
If lions had significantly receding hairlines and noses that had been broken more than once while playing pro football.
“Tony Foster?”
“Yes, sir.”
Lying flat on the desk, the huge hands covered a good portion of the available space. “You’re the set PA?”
“Yes.” Tony found himself staring at the manicured fingernails and had to force himself to look away. They’d met three or four times since he’d started working for Darkest Night—Tony couldn’t decide if CB really had forgotten him or was just trying to screw with his head. If the latter, it was working.
“You did good work last night.”
“Thank you.”
“A man who thinks quickly and can get the job done can go far in this business. Are you planning on going far, Tony Foster?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Think quickly and get the job done.” The dark eyes narrowed slightly under scant brows. “And keep your tongue between your teeth; that’s the trick.”
A warning? Or was he being paranoid? If I haven’t said anything yet, I’m not likely to start talking now seemed like an impolitic response. Tony settled for another, “Yes, sir.”
“Good.” One finger began to tap a slow rhythm against the desk.
Was he being dismissed?
“So. Get back to work.”
Apparently.
“Yes, sir.” Resisting the urge to back from the room, Tony turned and left; walking as fast as he could without making it seem like he was running away.
He stepped back into the production office as Arra emerged from the kitchen, a pale green mug cupped between both hands. Their eyes met.
And the voice in his ear breathed a name he didn’t quite catch.
What the . . . ? Flicking a finger against his ear jack, Tony bent to adjust the volume on his radio, wondering where the hell the barely audible voice was coming from. He had to be picking up bleed through from someone else’s frequency.
When he looked up again, Arra was gone.
“TONY? WHERE THE HELL IS CATHERINE?”
With Adam’s unmistakable bellow ech
oing inside his skull, he cranked the volume back down. “I’m on my way back to the set, I’ll get her.”
Amy glanced up from the photocopier as he passed her desk. “What did the boss want?”
“Are you planning on going far, Tony Foster?”
“Honestly?” He shrugged. “I’m not really sure.”
Mason Reed, in full Raymond Dark, was standing just inside the soundstage door. He jumped as he saw Tony, turned the movement into an overly flamboyant gesture, and snapped, “The girl is not on the set.”
“Adam told me. I’m going to get her now.”
“I was looking for her.”
Tony had no intention of arguing with him although it was obvious he’d been having a quick smoke—the gesture hadn’t waved off all the evidence. Legally, he couldn’t smoke on the soundstage, but the whole crew knew he did it whenever he had a break but not enough time to return to his dressing room. Stars didn’t stand outside in the rain with the rest of the addicted.
Used to skirting Mason’s ego for the sake of the shooting schedule, they ignored him for the most part, accepted his lame excuses at face value, and bitched about it behind his back.
Mason, who seemed to think no one knew, maintained a carefully crafted public image of an athletic nonsmoker making sure he was photographed on all the right ski hills and bike trails.
Actors, Tony snorted silently, as he walked back toward the auxiliary dressing rooms. It’s all “fool the eye. Don’t look at the man behind the curtain.”
He rapped against the plywood door, knuckles impacting the strip of duct tape at about the middle of the Catherine.
No answer.
About to call out, he discovered he had no idea of what her actual name was. If he thought of her at all, she was just Catherine—her actual identity wiped out by the bit part she was playing. Unexpectedly bothered by this, he pulled the day’s side from his pocket and stepped back into the light—nearly stepping on Mason who’d apparently followed him. “Sorry.”
The actor’s lip curled. “Why don’t you just open the door?”
“Well, she could be . . .”