The mouth moved. She jumped.
“Opal,” Corvus murmured.
“Yes?”
“Did you paralyze me? I can’t move.”
“Oh. Oops. Sorry, Corr.” She touched her palm to his newly leafy forehead and released him. She didn’t remember spelling him still. She could tell she had done it, though; her signature was on the magic. Maybe a thread of something else.
He shook his shoulders, turned his head. “How did you do that?”
“Hypnosis.” One of her stock answers. She usually didn’t do things like involuntarily paralyze other people anymore, unless the circumstances were dire. Why had she done it to Corvus?
It had certainly made the work easier.
“I don’t like hearing that,” he murmured. “I’m not supposed to be an easy subject. You didn’t do this to me on the last picture.”
“No.”
“I guess I must trust you.” He blinked. His eyelids were brown, now, blended with the rest of his face. When had she colored his lids? All she remembered from their session was his unblinking stare.
And the magic that had seeped from her fingertips into his skin . . . She must have done it then, tinted his face the color she wanted.
With his eyes closed, Corvus looked almost like forest floor. Opal shot some Polaroids for continuity, asked him to open his eyes and shot a couple more.
Corvus turned and stared at his reflection in the wall of mirrors beside his seat. “Oh. My.” A hand rose to his mouth, hovered but did not touch. He noticed the hand was normal, held it out, and frowned at it. The facial prosthetics worked well; she could read his expression without trouble.
“You’re not going to need the hands in tonight’s scene,” she said.
His eyes closed, opened. “You’re right. Do you have the mock-up gloves, though? I’d like to put something on. It’ll help with the character.”
She opened the drawer that held the hand work and got out the prototype gloves she had made. The real prosthetics were pieces again, finger sheathes, backs and palms of hands, a several-layer process to apply, but she had made the gloves to get the overall look, a template she could cut apart. She held the gloves open and he slid his large hands inside. She had worked from casts of his hands; the gloves fit absolutely.
She had used the leaf pattern and earth colors to craft the gloves, too. The fingernails were long, horny, and dark.
“Lovely,” he murmured, his voice dark, rich, velvety. He gave her a Dark God smile. She swayed, wanting to fall forward into his lap.
“Are you all right?” He pushed up out of the chair, braced her shoulders in his gloved hands, and steadied her.
Opal blinked up into his face, pulled herself together. “I’ve got to get Wardrobe in here,” she said. Had she laid an Attract Spell on him and not noticed? What was wrong with her? Usually she leashed her powers completely in situations like this.
She sniffed. No smell of an Attract Spell, but there was something at work here, something strange. It must be her, in love with her own creation and how Corvus embodied it. She’d had this problem before, especially at the start of a shoot, before she got tired of all the time it took to create her creatures over and over again. He was just so—perfectly monstrous.
Better ditch this attitude fast.
She picked up the “Ear,” the communications headset that linked her to the rest of the crew, slipped it on, and hooked the battery/control box to her belt. She hated the headset. Its electric energy field messed up her thinking. She wore it as little as possible, but right now she needed it to drop back into the web of everything going on with the film.
She called the head of the teamsters and put in a request for Corvus’s driver to be ready soon. Then she switched channels. No local traffic on the Makeup channel. She switched to Wardrobe, clicked the transmit button. “Betty?”
“Who is this?”
“Opal, makeup for Dark God.”
“I’m still at the B&B set. You need something?” The key wardrobe artist sounded gruff and irritated.
“Costume for Dark God. Call time in half an hour.”
“You’re one of those last-minute emergency people, huh? Great,” said Betty.
Turf wars, thought Opal. Wonderful.
“I’m still needed here,” said Betty, still grumpy. “Pick up Kelsi, my assistant, at the trailer. She’ll get you geared up.”
“Is she on this channel?”
“She probably doesn’t have her Ear in. She hates it.”
“That makes two of us.”
“Great. More idiots out of the loop. Go to the trailer and tell her I said she should help you. She can confirm if she wants.”
Opal sighed and switched off. “Don’t go anywhere,” she told Corvus. “I brought you some water.” She handed him a sports bottle with a straw, something he could sip from without upsetting the prosthetics. “I’ll be right back with Wardrobe.” She dashed out of the trailer, locked the door behind her.
In the Wardrobe trailer, Opal introduced herself to Kelsi Martini. Kelsi, her short bobbed hair lime green, her skin pale, her lips painted black, helped Opal track down Corvus’s costume. “I’ll suit him up,” Kelsi said as she draped the long black robe twice over her arm.
“All right.”
Opal’s Ear crackled. Rodrigo’s voice said, “What’s your status? Ready to head out?”
She pressed the transmit button. “Not dressed yet.”
“We’re wrapping with Unit One, but there’s been some traffic on another channel about the forest shoot. You should hurry.”
“On it,” she said.
“Can’t wait to see what you’ve done to the big guy,” Kelsi said as they left the trailer. “Sure looked spooky in the story-boards.”
“Yeah, well . . .” Opal unlocked the Makeup trailer.
“What’s with the extra security?” Kelsi asked as she entered the trailer.
“We found a hidden camera. Somebody’s going tabloid on our asses.”
Kelsi gasped, and Opal turned from locking the door to stare.
The Dark God loomed at the far end of the trailer. He was a large, ominous shadow against the light—all the other makeup stations had been shut down; only Opal’s was still lit. His naked upper body looked bull-like, dense with muscles, and the silhouetted shape of his head was odd and wrong, different from her vision of him. Fear thrilled in feathering ripples up Opal’s spine.
A sucking sound came from the Dark God’s direction. “Got any more water?” Corvus said, his voice higher than usual.
“Gaah,” said Kelsi. “You scared me, dude!”
“Good.” He had dropped the register into deep and rich again. Opal wondered if he’d spoken high to break the tension. She wouldn’t put it past him. He was always sensitive to emotional atmospheres. “That’s my job.”
Kelsi headed toward him. Opal followed. As Corvus turned toward the light, she saw that he was just as she had left him, a demon-wood god mix, his mane of black hair raying out around the prosthetics that covered his face and neck. She had carried the dark brown/gleaming gold skin color of the Dark God a short way down his black-furred chest; below that, he was light tan, normal. She hadn’t seen him out from under the blanket yet today; she didn’t remember him being this buff during their last movie.
Kelsi walked all the way around Corvus. “Wow, Opal! Wow! That’s amazing! I’d heard you were good, but I never—”
Corvus posed while Kelsi examined him.
“Fantastic,” Kelsi whispered.
Opal crossed her arms. “Thanks. It helps to have good base material.”
Corvus grinned, his Dark God expression more sinister than reassuring, but she could read beneath the layers she had applied to his face, and knew he was teasing her. She was glad they’d forged a good connection. Some of the actors she had worked with in the past had been horrors in several senses of the word.
Kelsi held up the black robe. “Well, so, want to slip into this, Mr. Weathe
r?”
He put down the sports bottle, and Opal grabbed it. There were crates of water bottles on the Craft Services truck. She should stock some by her station.
Corvus stretched his arms behind him so Kelsi could slip on the sleeves. She slid the black robe up over his shoulders. “Any of this stuff bleed?” she asked Opal. “Do you have solvents to get it out of cloth?”
“It shouldn’t stain; it’s set until I use the removal goop.”
“No stains, huh?” Kelsi fastened the robe at Corvus’s neck with a silver brooch shaped like a five-pointed star, center point down. She straightened the hood. The back of her hand brushed the colored part of Corvus’s neck. She studied her hand, flashed it at Opal: no makeup adhered. “Neat.”
“Ticktock,” Corvus said.
Startled, Kelsi glanced at Opal’s Batman clock. It was almost six; they were due at the forest clearing location. “Sorry.” She used hidden snaps to fasten the rest of the robe down the front, then reached way up to lift the hood and settle it, veiling most of his head. The hood left his face in shadow; only the extended chin, with its leaf beard, jutted out far enough to catch much light. “Okay. I’ll ride over with you guys, if that’s all right.”
“Sure,” said Opal. Then she glanced at Corvus: it was really his decision. He was the star, the one who could have tantrums and snits if he liked, so long as they stayed on schedule. He was so laid back she had forgotten he was talent and she was second- or third-class citizen. On some shoots, nobody ever let you forget your status; other shoots were more relaxed. Opal hadn’t spent enough time on this shoot to get a sense of how it worked.
“Glad to have you,” Corvus said to Kelsi.
“I’ll get my kit. Meet you at the car.”
Opal packed solvents and brushes and touch-up equipment in her makeup kit, along with duplicates of the pieces of latex she had applied to Corvus’s face, in case of wardrobe malfunctions. “I have to stop at Craft Services and pick up more water—”
“Could you get me something to drink with calories in it? I don’t want to eat with this on,” Corvus said.
“Yeah. Patty stocked protein shakes for you. I’ll walk you to the car and get you settled, then run for it.”
“Good. I can see, but my vision is limited, and I don’t want to bump my hands.”
“Rest your hands on my shoulders.” She stood in front of the door and waited until Corvus was right behind her, his large, warm, rubber-gloved hands heavy on her shoulders. They had done this before, too: she had acted as guide dog on Dead Loss. The doubled head he had worn for that role was much more of a challenge for him visually.
Opal opened the door at her end of the trailer and flicked off the lights. “Three steps down,” she said, “and the last one is—yikes!”
Erika’s camera flashed, blinding her. She would have stumbled without Corvus’s steadying grip on her shoulders.
“Stop it!” she yelled at Erika.
“No way. I’ve waited all afternoon for this.” Erika shot a stream of pictures, alternating between two cameras on straps around her neck.
“If we’re late because of your interference,” Corvus said, his voice a low rumble, “we’ll redirect the wrath to you.”
“I’m done for now,” Erika said. She smirked. “Thanks so much. Catch you later. Nice job, Opal.” She strolled away, taking her musky scent cloud with her.
Opal shivered with suppressed rage. The wrappings on her powers unwound; she felt red rivers rise. Energy pooled in her palms. She hadn’t been this angry since she was sixteen, newly powerful, and her younger brother and sister had teased her beyond bearing. She could hold up her hands and let the power jab out of her into Erika’s back. Erika would melt into a puddle of steaming flesh, her cameras slag.
Opal clenched her fists to restrain the eager power.
Corvus’s hands on her shoulders steadied her. He leaned down and whispered in her ear, “Not yet,” in a Dark God voice, and that gave her the strength to chill her power and send it back to sleep. In the shocky aftermath, she swayed, and Corvus held her steady.
How could she even contemplate such a devastating thing? She was Opal, low-powered Opal who only used her gifts to change how things looked. Who inside her rose up in a killing rage?
Corvus’s rubber-taloned fingers massaged her shoulders a little. His regular voice said, “You okay, Opal, hon? I guess we should have expected that. She’s a pit bull.”
She hugged herself, settled down. “Sure. Sorry, Corr. Let’s go. Three steps down, and the last one is steeper.”
“I’ll find it by feel.”
They descended the steps. Once they touched down on the parking lot between the bed-and-breakfast, where the first unit had been filming all day, and the abandoned grocery store the production company had taken over as a housing for sound stages, Corvus moved up to walk beside her, one hand still on her shoulder. They walked to the black Lincoln the production manager had rented for Corvus’s use.
A short dark man leaned against the car, reading a magazine. He wore pointy boots, jeans, and a brown leather jacket. “Hitch,” Corvus said. “This is Opal, my makeup artist. She comes with me every time. Opal, Hitch, my driver.”
“Pleased,” said Hitch, holding out a hand. Opal shook it and smiled.
Kelsi joined them. “I’m geared up! Let’s rock and roll.”
“Boss?” Hitch said.
“Kelsi. Wardrobe. She’s with us, too.”
Hitch shrugged and held the door for Corvus.
“I’ve got to get food and water,” Opal muttered.
“There’s another Craft Services van at the site,” said Kelsi. “Dinner break’s at nine. Somebody’ll bring a load of sandwiches.”
“Oh, good.”
Kelsi jumped into the backseat. Opal joined her. Hitch piloted them away from the trailer village.
From the supermarket parking lot, people could walk anywhere in town; it was that small. Corvus, the director, and an actor Opal hadn’t met yet were staying upstairs in the B&B. Most of the crew and any day players they needed stayed at a budget motel ten miles out of town, in the larger city of Redford off the highway. The production manager had rented a house across the square from the B&B in Lapis where she set up the office, reception, accounting, and a small room where the director, the director of photography, and anyone else who needed to could watch the dailies on DVD. The director of photography and the producer lived upstairs in the house. Other principal actors were living with various families around town.
Lapis had been small but busy before the Interstate was finished in 1966 and business and traffic moved a few miles west. One main road ran from north to south through town; two smaller roads ran east-west past the outskirts. Hitch took Sixth Street to Lost River Road. A mile east out of town, they came to a post with a paper plate stapled to it. One of the crew had written FOREST and an arrow pointing away from the road on the plate. There was a rutted track where the equipment trucks had churned up late spring mud on their way to the clearing where demonic rituals involving the Dark God were going to be filmed.
Mud spat up into the undercarriage of the Lincoln as they took the squishy road into the forest. The terrain was slippery. Opal wondered why the location manager had picked this place—until they broke out of the trees into a perfect clearing, firm ground, clear of trees, with a small brook running through one corner, and a stone altar and lichen-starred standing stones at the far end.
It was Magic Hour. Twilight still lightened the sky; the trees were visible but dark against the lingering light. Someone had brought in small bronze censers on tripods, suitably smoking, and an open fire danced in a ring of stones in front of the altar. A group of extras in long white robes were bunched up at the far end of the meadow. Light racks, camera tracks, and sound equipment stood ready near the altar. Chairs, the Craft Services truck, and equipment vans were arrayed at the near end of the meadow, hidden behind a photographed forest backdrop.
One of the youn
g men directed Hitch off the road into a makeshift parking lot where someone had cleared a few trees. He pulled in and turned off the engine, which didn’t silence the night. Portable generators roared near the equipment.
Hitch rounded the car and opened the door, helped Corvus out. Opal and Kelsi emerged. “The ground’s pretty good here, but you better let me lead you anyway,” Opal said, turning so Corvus could rest his hands on her shoulders again.
“Anytime, hon,” said Corvus. He sounded distracted.
“Come on, come on,” yelled Neil Aldridge, the director, “we’re eating energy here.” He wore black slacks and a black shirt. He was tall and muscular, with a shock of dark hair, heavy brow ridges, and a dissatisfied, thin-lipped mouth. He stood with his arms crossed, looking irritated. He appeared about forty-five. She hadn’t seen any of his earlier movies. She and Corvus had wanted to consult with him about the Dark God in preproduction, but he had fobbed them off on the production designer, Dathan Riley, who was excited about the concept and worked with them to define and fine-tune it. Aldridge’s voice was mellifluous, and carried well. He sounded kind. That was not his reputation.
The script supervisor, a sturdy woman with a clipboard, stood one step behind him. “The call was for six,” Neil said.
“Sorry,” said Opal. She checked her watch. They were a minute late. “Erika.”
“Damn,” muttered Neil. “Well, get out here and let me see what we’ve got.”
Opal led Corvus past Neil into the full glare of the lights near the altar. Something itched her feet, some dazzle or discomfort she didn’t recognize.
“Ladies, gentlemen, and others, our monster,” said Neil. Like a ringmaster, he swept an arm toward Opal and Corvus.
All sound aside from the generators stopped.
Corvus gripped Opal’s shoulders once, then gently pushed her aside. He stood with his arms crossed and looked over the assembled cast and crew. He moved his head and the hood fell away, revealing a stranger.
The horns weren’t part of her prosthetics. They looked right, though, two short forward-thrusting spikes growing from Corvus’s leafy temples, gleaming gold in their grooves. Opal opened her senses wide. Stranger magic tickled the bottoms of her feet, met her own force without meshing with it.
Fall of Light Page 2
