by Jade Astor
Darian started to protest, but a beep cut him off.
“Maddy’s on the other line, speak of the devil—or the devil’s sister, in this case. I told her she could call and check up on me. If I don’t answer she’ll drive up here again. I’ll have to go. We’ll talk another time.”
He didn’t say when. Darian got the sense it would be a while.
“Okay,” he choked out. The line went dead.
So much for the big reconciliation. No apologies. No tears. No regrets, apparently. Argo was ready to move on without him.
Just like that, stopping for a crummy carton of half and half had destroyed everything he’d built for himself here. He couldn’t even take his mind off the mess by burying himself in his schoolwork. They’d kicked him to the curb, too. He knew very well that Jeanette was trying to avoid more negative publicity for the school. The trustees and alums were still reeling from what had happened to Timothy Pryor and Aaron Macklin earlier that same semester. At least no one was dead this time around.
He was wiping his eyes when the phone shrilled gain. He grabbed it, hoping it was Argo, and saw Victor’s number.
“Sorry to be calling so late,” Victor said. “I figured you just walked in. Listen, I talked to the gang. You’re in! Sandra says she’d be happy to have an extra pair of hands to help with the costumes and makeup. I’m afraid there’s no money, though. As you’ve already figured out, we’re pretty low budget.”
“That’s fine. No payment expected.”
“We’ll provide meals, of course, and you’ll be ready for Hollywood when we get finished with you. See you tomorrow morning? Ten-ish? Show biz types aren’t early risers—especially the star of this production, if you get my drift.”
“Okay. See you then.”
Victor paused. “This break from the school worked out perfectly. Don’t get me wrong—I’m not glad you were shot at. But things happen for a reason, as they say. Until tomorrow.”
Darian clicked off the cell phone and stared at the screen. Bryce hadn’t been exaggerating. Victor was definitely interested in him. He was also handsome, intelligent, and charming—never mind rich, though Darian didn’t care about that. Plus he had a connection to Birchwood. He’d be a perfect replacement boyfriend, one his moms would approve of. Acting and writing was a much safer job than crimefighting.
Bottom line, he didn’t need to be single for even a day if he didn’t want to be.
Tomorrow, he’d be off to court fame and fortune via a gay zombie film. Okay, it wasn’t exactly Emily Brontë, in spite of Jamie’s boasting.
But everyone had to start somewhere. And this time, all the blood would be made of ketchup. At least, Darian assumed it was.
Chapter 6
Thaddeus Blackraven paused in the doorway of Ravenhurst’s drawing room, his body obscured by the shadows, hands tensed at his sides. The sight of Caleb Longwell always had that effect on him, making a pleasant heat rush through his body. Today, it only seemed to push him closer to madness.
Caleb, seated at the desk with a quill pen in his hand, stood to greet him. He looked perfect, as he always did, with his fluffy cravat artfully tied and his swallow-tailed jacket brushed to perfection. The dark wine-colored fabric outlined his trim figure in a way that forced Thaddeus to lick his lips. He clamped his fists, digging his fingernails into his itchy palms.
He stepped into the room, feigning a carefree tone.
“Ah, so there you are. I was hoping we could talk, Caleb.”
Shame, and more than a little fear, sparked in Caleb’s wide blue eyes. The mixed reaction made Thaddeus smirk.
“Thaddeus, you must listen. What happened with Osbourne had nothing to do with what I feel for you. It was a mistake—a moment of madness.”
“Enough with your lies, Caleb! I’ve looked the other way long enough. Now you must pay for what you did—just as Osbourne has already paid.”
Caleb’s already fair skin blanched, giving him the appearance of a ghost. “Have you harmed him? I hope for your sake you have not, Thaddeus, or it will be you who pay a very heavy price indeed, at the end of the constable’s noose.”
Thaddeus laughed. “I am not afraid of that. People will think Osbourne has gone off on another drunken gallivant, or perhaps run off in shame over his illicit relationship with another man. Better still, they will think you have run off with him, Caleb. In time, both of you will be forgotten. And this house will be mine.”
“Wh-what have you done to Osbourne? Thaddeus, you must tell me.”
“No, Caleb. I would rather show you.”
With that, Thaddeus dropped all pretense of civility and clamped one hand under Caleb’s delicate chin, drawing him close. “You think I should take pity on you? The man I once loved—still love, if I am being truthful?” He tightened his grip.
“Yes,” Caleb whispered. His thin lips curved into a knowing smile as he relaxed against Thaddeus. “Of course I do.”
Their kiss was rough, desperate, and hungry. Thaddeus’s fingers, still on Caleb’s pale throat, began to tighten. Startled, Caleb tried to jerk backward, but Thaddeus wouldn’t let him go. His mouth, still pressed against Caleb’s, smothered the beginnings of his scream.
From the opposite side of the room came the sound of shattering glass. The bright light over their heads blinked out.
“Damn it!” Another voice—this one definitely not Osbourne’s—yelled. “Cut!”
“Sorry,” Chuck said, stepping away from his camera and bending to pick up the light he’d knocked over. “I was just moving in for a tighter shot and my foot got caught in the cord.”
Logan gave an exasperated sigh, theatrically enhanced so that everyone present could hear it. “Damn it, Chuck, this is getting expensive.”
“Sorry, man. What can I say? It’s a cramped space. But I know we’re on a tight budget. I’ll try to be more careful.”
“Good idea.”
“Just take a minute to change it out. I’ve got a spare right here.” Chuck pointed to his camera bag.
“It’s okay, Chuck. Don’t worry about it. We all make mistakes,” Thaddeus Blackraven, better known as Victor Reece, crossed the room to clap him on the shoulder. Caleb, otherwise known as former soap-opera star Jamie London, stayed behind to rub his neck. His face contorted in rage.
“You didn’t have to act it out that realistically, Victor,” he whined. “Not only did you rumple my costume, but you hurt me!”
“Oh, come on,” Victor said with a laugh. “I’m supposed to be murdering you. How can I avoid mussing up your shirt a little?”
“Is there a red spot?” Jamie turned to their harried director and clawed at his frilly collar. “Logan, did he leave a mark?”
“I don’t see anything,” Logan admitted. “It’s fine to get into character, but don’t tear anything. The rental place will charge us full replacement value,” Logan cautioned Victor with an indulgent half-smile. “Sandra, can you take a look? Touch him up if necessary. And give Darian another lesson while you’re at it.”
“Okay.” Sandra gestured toward the small table in the corner where a number of makeup tubes, brushes, and powder jars waited. “Come over here where the light’s better. While I’m at it, let me fix your face, too, Victor.”
Jamie paused to scowl while Victor slipped ahead of him and plunked down in the folding chair at Sandra’s workstation. She gave his makeup job a quick inspection, holding a hand mirror to his face at various angles. “The whole trick is knowing how much color to put on,” she told Darian as she picked up a brush. “Too much, and it’ll look fake on camera. Too little, and his skin will be washed out. It’s worse with these high-def cameras Chuck’s got, and the lights make everyone sweat.”
“At least we won’t have to worry about that for much longer, at the rate he’s been breaking bulbs,” Victor cracked. Sandra ignored him.
“He’s getting shiny. I think we ought to dust him down with another layer of powder. Remember what I showed you before? Here, give it a
try.”
She handed Darian the brush. So gingerly he was barely touching the bristles to Victor’s skin, he swiped it over Victor’s forehead and cheeks. Victor grinned and tipped his head up while Darian used the brush to emphasize the gaunt, hollow-cheeked look that defined his tormented character. “Your hands are magic, Darian,” he purred.
“Thanks.” Darian fought back a blush. “Jamie’s not as impressed with yours, it seems.”
Victor wriggled his fingers. “Jamie doesn’t know what he’s missing. Luckily, plenty of other guys have more sense.”
Sandra nodded as Darian worked his way across Victor’s cheeks, highlighting the natural curve of his jaw. “Not bad,” she said.
“Thanks.” One day in, and Darian was glad he’d decided to become a teacher and not an actor. The set was in near-constant chaos. Jamie changed his lines whenever he felt like it, Chuck was breaking light bulbs right and left, and Sandra was yelling at everyone not to wreck the costumes or smear their eyeliner. A stress headache played around the edges of his mind.
At the same time, the film was one of the most exciting things he’d ever been involved with. He was genuinely having fun.
So much fun that he almost forgot to miss Argo. But not quite. He had to make a physical effort to push those dark thoughts away.
No way to go back in time and change things, after all. And he wasn’t even convinced he wanted to. The thought of Argo lying motionless in a pool of blood in the convenience store twisted his guts in a knot even now.
“Tell Mr. DeMille it’s time for my close-up,” Victor said when he finished. “And see if we can keep this man around, Sandra. He’s great.”
Sandra ignored him until he’d walked off to confer with Logan. She turned to Darian. “You have to think of it as painting, only on a three dimensional surface.”
Darian nodded. “Got it.”
“Oh, please,” Jamie’s voice broke in. He hovered behind Sandra, his arms crossed and his lip tilted in a sneer. “It can’t be too hard if she can do it.”
“Don’t you have a script to memorize or something?” Sandra asked.
“No. I’ve already done all that. It doesn’t take me long. I’m a professional, you know.”
“Great for you. Hard to tell the way you keep muffing your lines.”
“I’m improvising,” Jamie snapped. “Fleshing my character out. Making the whole movie better. I have Logan’s full permission to do so.” He leaned closer to Sandra, encroaching on her personal space until even Darian moved back. She, however, refused to flinch. “Let’s get one thing straight between us, dear. You’re on this film because I let Logan have his own way. He feels sorry for you—all that education and no real job. I’m willing to indulge him, but only to a point. If you press my buttons, one of them just may cause me to ignite. Be careful, or you’ll be back on the bus to New York before you have time to suck down your next free meal in Victor’s dining room.”
“Back on the bus, huh? Well, if I go, the costumes and all my makeup goes with me. And that alone should make sure this film never gets finished. Logan might be willing to give you your own way now, but all that can change. I’m connected to him in a way you’ll never be.”
“Don’t be too sure about that. Some things really are thicker than water.”
“Enough theatrics.” Sandra rolled her eyes. “Take a seat and Darian will dust you off, too. I’m sure you wouldn’t want to deprive him of the opportunity to practice on a real professional like yourself.”
“With that crappy hand mirror? You’ve got to be kidding. I’m going up to my room, where there’s a proper full-length one, and do the touch-ups myself. And I’m warning you, Victor, I better not see a single red mark on my neck.”
Whirling, Jamie stomped off. Soon they heard his boot heels thumping up the staircase.
“You know,” Sandra grumbled, “this film’s chances of succeeding go down every day he stays involved. It’s his attitude that’s going to derail the whole thing, not the lack of funding. His idea of a successful production is one that caters to his every whim, the rest of the cast and crew be damned. But my brother won’t see it.”
“I guess it’s hard when two people are a couple and also working together,” Darian said, trying to remain neutral. Appearing to take sides with either Jamie or Sandra would earn him nothing but Logan’s resentment, he suspected.
“We’d all be better off if he took his skinny self-important ass elsewhere, and I don’t mean just in terms of this film. Maybe then my brother could have a life—a career. He thinks Jamie is his best hope, but he doesn’t see that their relationship is slowly destroying him. You ever see those movies where someone goes back in time to prevent the villain from ever being born? If I ever had a chance like that, I’d spin the dial to the day they met and keep Jamie London out of both our lives forever.”
Thankfully, Darian noticed Victor motioning to him from across the room and excused himself.
“You look like you’re enjoying yourself,” Victor said when Darian joined him. “Creating something new is exciting, isn’t it? Just wait till we get to the end and screen the whole thing for the very first time. There’s nothing like seeing the whole project come together. Doesn’t even matter if it’s terrible. The thrill is the same.”
“I’m looking forward to it. And I’m sure the end result won’t be terrible.”
“You’re more optimistic than I am. That just proves my point, though. It’s fun having you around. Kind of like doing all this for the very first time.” Victor grinned. He did look wonderful in his tailcoat and cravat—rather like a gentleman from a Victorian novel, about to serve tea and discuss the ghosts in the attic. Sandra and Logan had done an excellent job retrofitting the room with antiques and whisking away every artifact of the present. It looked much like it probably had back in the days of Victor’s great-grandfather, the captain of early American industry.
“I feel out of place sitting here in jeans and a t-shirt,” Darian said, eyeing Victor’s period costume with appreciation. “You look right at home, though. I can imagine the original inhabitants of the house lounging around here in those same sorts of clothes.”
“Must have been damned itchy and uncomfortable for them,” Victor said. “No wonder they always look so pissed off in those old paintings.”
“You have to admit, those cravats and coats do look classy. Sandra did a great job picking them out.”
“Maybe, but I’ll take a modern guy in jeans any day. And those long coats are nice, but I like to see the shape of what’s underneath. You know.” Victor winked. “It’s all about the eye candy. And I’m always in the mood for something sweet.”
Darian decided to change the subject. “I wonder what they were like—the people who lived in this house back then. Your ancestors.”
“Stuffy by our standards, I’d guess—but in other ways, not so different from the way we are at all.” Victor surveyed their surroundings. “It’s kind of sad now—the lions are all chipped and faded, the lawn a tangled mess. A lot of people in town say this place is haunted.”
“Really? They probably say that about every old place, though.”
“Exactly. Reece Hall might be perfect for Logan’s horror show, but like I told Sandra, I don’t believe in ghosts.”
“Me either,” Darian said. “But I can see why people like scary stories. In my college English class, our professor used to say that the dark parts of literature not only help us cope with the more tragic aspects of life, but that without fear and grief we would never appreciate happiness and pleasure.”
“Sounds deep. Your professor was a very wise man.”
“Actually, our professor was a woman,” Darian said. They shared a smile.
“I stand corrected,” Victor said.
“Hey! Enough chitchat, you two,” Logan called from the corner of the room. Darian saw that he and Chuck had finished replacing the light bulb. “We’ve got three scenes to shoot today, Victor, so I’d appreciate i
t if we could keep the downtime to a minimum.”
“Oh, come on, Logan, don’t blame that on me. We stopped because Chuck tripped over the light, not because of anything I did. Then Jamie started with his usual histrionics. Tell him, Darian. You didn’t see any redness on his neck, did you?”
“Actually, no. I didn’t. Then again he didn’t let me check closely.”
“Maybe he exaggerated,” Logan conceded, “but we can afford to humor him a little. It just makes everything easier.”
“That’s easy for you to say,” Victor grumbled. “It’s really no wonder my character wants to kill him. The being in love part is a lot more challenging, I admit.”
“I’ve explained this to you already,” Logan said.
“Yeah, I know, I know.” Victor rolled his eyes. “He’s a known quantity thanks to his soap opera work, and if we play our cards right we might get airtime for the series.”
“Name recognition is what it’s all about. And speaking of Jamie, where the hell did he go? Darian, go and look for him. He might need more help with his makeup.”
“Go up the stairs and take a left,” Victor said. “His room’s at the end of the hall. Feel free to take your time bringing him back down here. Don’t want to rush Madame Streep, after all.”
Darian hurried off, eager to escape Logan and Victor’s bickering. When he reached the top of the stairs, he heard a familiar shrill voice calling from the far end of the landing.
“Hey! Makeup guy! It’s about time you got here. I need your help!”
He found Jamie seated at a small table in a tiny bedroom that smelled of mildew and old wood, angling his neck in front of a large gilt-edged mirror on the wall.
“The name’s Darian,” he reminded Jamie.
“Well, I can’t remember what to call everyone. I have other things on my mind. And this is only our first day of production.”
