Logan’s chest heaved and his jaw tightened, his face assuming the closed-down, no-trespassing mask Riley hated. The one that said Logan was through listening to anything but his own inner demons.
Riley moved forward, reaching out, but Logan stepped back, and Riley dropped his arm to his side. “Logan, please. You don’t have to do this alone.”
“Yes, I do. You don’t understand. It’s my obligation. My job to unravel this mess. The whole thing was my fault.”
“No, it wasn’t.”
Logan folded his arms and turned to look out the window. “I suppose you’ll say it’s Trent’s fault, but he’d never have been there if I hadn’t told him the fucking story. He’d never heard of Danford Balch or the Stumps or the Witch’s Castle. If it weren’t for me, he’d have drunk too much, awoken with a hangover, and shown up for rehearsal with a headache and an upset stomach.”
“No. It’s the fault of whoever’s will conjured up this war in the first place, and the engine that powers it. This isn’t just about you, Logan. Or Trent, or your grandfather, or Joseph Geddes. It’s a bomb primed to explode, and the blast will reach beyond people caught in the ghost war. For that matter, what do you think will happen if you succeed and Trent comes back?”
Logan’s back stiffened, and in the reflection in the window, Riley saw his lips thin and his eyes narrow. “Anything’s got to be better than getting hanged once a year.”
“I agree. But the transition back to this world holds its own issues, and you can’t afford to ignore them. You have to be ready to face them.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s like the stories of humans kidnapped into Faerie who return to find that more time has passed in the outer world and everyone they know is changed or gone. You said Balch looked terrible. Granted, Trent’s been gone less time, but our world moves fast, and seven years can work a hell of a lot of change. What do you think he’ll do when he finds he doesn’t fit in?”
“He’ll be fine,” Logan growled.
“How do you know? You don’t know what he’s endured or how he’ll react.” Riley held up his hands, palms out. “I’m not saying we shouldn’t go through with the rescue. We just need to consider all the ramifications. Not everyone has your strength of character.”
Logan’s lips twisted in disgust, and he snorted soundlessly. “And not everyone is as stubborn as you. Why can’t you see that I have to do this? Make things right?”
Why is he more important than you? More important than us? Riley was beginning to resent Trent Pielmeyer—and he had no confidence whatsoever in Trent’s integrity. He’d stepped into the ghost war despite Logan’s warnings, and expected Logan to pull him out. Doesn’t say stand-up guy to me. “What will Trent say when the police start asking questions? Who will he blame for his disappearance? If it comes down to you or him, I suspect he’ll throw you under the bus in a hot minute.”
“He was my best friend. He wouldn’t—”
“Logan, he already did. Don’t you see?” Riley gentled his tone. “You’re trapped by this ritual as much as if you’d been in his place. Everything you do or don’t allow yourself to do is colored by that event.”
“Because it’s on me. All of it. I knew what would happen—”
“No. You didn’t. Your grandfather didn’t know why Joseph Geddes disappeared. You had no way of knowing it could happen again. But now you do know. If you let this go on, expose anyone else to the same danger, that’s on you. It ends tonight, Logan. Whether Trent escapes or not. It ends tonight.”
Riley sat, swiveling the chair to face the desk. He frowned as he lifted his laptop’s lid. Hadn’t he left it open? Huh. Must be more wiped than I realized.
His screen flared to embarrassing life—the picture of the two of them at that stupid barbecue. Heat painted his cheeks and the tips of his ears. God. Why hadn’t he ever changed it?
He glanced over his shoulder, but Logan wasn’t looking at him. Just staring out the window, his shoulders even more rigid than before.
Riley turned back to his laptop, to his sappy expression and Logan’s single public act of affection.
Wait. What?
He could have sworn he’d left all his documents open, but there was nothing now. Nothing open in the task bar. Nothing minimized. He checked the directory where he’d stored his research, the links to the banishment video, Marguerite’s instructions, his own strategies.
Empty. Every last one.
Fire kindled in his chest, heating his neck, burning at the back of his eyes.
“Logan. What did you do?”
“I erased it.”
“Do you realize what you’ve done?”
“Yes.” He turned, his face implacable. “I’m keeping you safe and doing what I have to do. I’m sorry if I’ve—”
“My work. Not just this story, you destroyed years of research. You destroyed everything. Did you stop to think what that would mean to me?”
Logan shut his eyes briefly, mouth pinched. “They were only words, Riley. You’re worth so much more.”
Riley shut the laptop with a click. “If I’m worth so freaking much, Logan, why is what I do worth so little?”
“I’m sorry.” Logan’s voice held a ragged edge, but no uncertainty. “But this can’t end until Trent returns. If that means I have to take his place, then I’m ready.”
Riley hung his head, fists clenched on his thighs. “I’m not,” he whispered.
Logan eased his jacket off the chair. “Good-bye.”
The feathered touch on Riley’s hair might have been nothing but his imagination. Logan took the two strides to the door and was gone.
His limbs as heavy as a Gorgon’s victim, Riley pressed his fingers against his gritty eyes behind his glasses, not sure if the tears that threatened from his stupid broken heart would outrank his outrage over Logan’s thoughtless sabotage. It didn’t matter that Riley backed up his laptop regularly—he was no idiot—but Logan didn’t know that, and he’d been willing to obliterate the files anyway.
Logan didn’t seem to realize that without his work, Riley amounted to nothing but Julie’s all-but-unemployed BFF. The guy who got the coffee. Max’s pack mule. Scott’s virtual nicotine patch.
Production Bitch.
Maybe it was time he buried himself in the part. Stopped pushing for scholarship and authenticity. Let Scott reorient the shots for maximum scenic effect but zero possible manifestation. Allow the whole episode to peter out like any other HttM episode, with Max intoning “Chilling, if true,” as the final credits rolled.
But this story wasn’t just Hollywood special effects. The ghost war presented a real danger, not only to Logan—who’d insist on sacrificing himself even if Max Stone threw him down in the mud and tap danced on his chest—but to any other hapless victim who got caught in the ritual.
Since Riley knew the risks, and had at least a slim hope of making a difference, it was his responsibility to get the job done and end the war.
“I’m doing this,” he told the ceiling. The pine broom, the herb smudging, the banishment ritual that looked like St. Vitus’s dance. All of it, no matter how insane it made him appear.
If he believed, if he willed it, and if he didn’t screw everything from hell to breakfast, Logan would be safe. He might hate Riley forever, but Trent’s fate would no longer be his fault. He could blame Riley instead, and get on with his life.
Riley would have to be content with knowing he’d rescued the big jerk from his savior complex.
It would have to be enough.
He settled his glasses on his nose and dove into damage-control mode.
Thank Zeus, Odin, Osiris, and Bran the Blessed for automatic online backups and the free wi-fi that extended even to his poky little third-rate room. Logan’s search-and-destroy mission hadn’t wiped out anything but the most recent notes on potential strategies.
Luckily, since he’d been obsessing over those all night, they remained front-and-center in his mind, like
Max jostling for a better camera angle. He took a gulp of his coffee. Ewww. Tepid. He tossed the nearly full cup into the plastic-lined waste bin with a thump and slosh.
His gaze caught on the second cup. The one he’d bought just in case Logan had returned by the time he got back. He grabbed it, ready to slam-dunk it into the trash, but his hand trembled at the last second.
He took a sip. Just as tepid as his own had been, but the trace of hazelnut tasted like Logan’s morning kisses. He took another sip and set the cup next to his laptop.
Pathetic. But whatever.
He recovered the notes on the procedures he’d cobbled together and uploaded them to his phone, with an additional note to ask Charmaine to tuck the charm bag into Logan’s bodyguard costume jacket.
He checked the clock icon on his screen. Seven fifty-four. He had to report for duty in six minutes. Slumping in his chair, he removed his glasses and scrubbed his hands over his face. The buzz he always got from completing a project had already faded, leaving nothing but an empty feeling in his middle and the bitter taste of coffee and betrayal on his tongue.
Don’t think about what Logan did. Concentrate on saving the dickhead’s ass tonight, whether he wants it or not. Whether he believes you’re capable of it or not.
His email alert pinged. Great. Another of Julie’s last-minute schedule updates.
He blinked blearily at the screen. Why was it out of focus? Oh, glasses. He shoved them on his face, but even with clear vision, his inbox made no sense.
The message was from Scott. How could that be? Scott never emailed him. Riley wasn’t certain Scott even knew his name, since he’d only ever called Riley “you,” accompanied by a pointed finger.
The subject line read Revised Shoot Assignments. Riley frowned as he opened the document. Usually Julie and her Clipboard of Doom handled scheduling and notification—Scott must be more invested in this episode than either of them had realized.
Riley scanned the list and his blood pounded in his ears as earlier outrage returned. “What the freaking hell?”
He’d been taken off the approved crew list for the Witch’s Castle site, relegated to traffic control at the trailhead and, God, craft services? Seriously?
No, damn it. Not only was this his story, but he had to be on-site to ensure Logan didn’t do something incredibly stupid, offering himself up on the altar of his guilt like a bloody volcano virgin.
He punched Julie’s speed dial on his cell. The call went straight to voice mail. Invoking curses to six different deities, Riley shoved himself out of his chair and took the two and a half strides across his room. When he yanked the door open, he nearly got brained by Julie’s fist, which was poised to knock with her usual gusto.
“Whoa. Sorry.” She backed up a step, a frown pleating the skin between her eyebrows. “Riley? What’s wrong?”
He grabbed the pencil from behind her ear and tossed it over his shoulder. “Do not start drawing pictures of my face.”
“I wasn’t. I promise. I—”
“What the hell is up with the schedule?”
She dropped her gaze and fiddled with the top paper on her clipboard, dog-earing the bottom corner and smoothing it out. “Scott . . .” She raised her chin an inch above level. “This shoot has a complicated infrastructure. I need someone I can trust to handle all the off-set arrangements.”
Riley clenched his fists at his sides. “Julie, you know this is wrong. This is my story. You know I have to be there.”
“Riley, please.” Her eyes were wide, pleading. “It can’t matter to you. Not really. You’ve said so yourself. This is my career trajectory, not yours, and if this keeps Scott happy and Max off my back—”
“You’re caving?” He punctuated his words by jabbing his finger into her fleece-clad shoulder. “Sucking up to Scott because you think he’ll give you a shot at the showrunner gig.”
She bit her lip and glanced at the oh-so-fascinating mass-produced print of Mount Hood on the wall. “Next season. He promised me if this shoot goes smoothly, if I can keep Max happy, the budget under control—”
He let his hand drop, fingers lax. “You don’t believe in the ghost war either, do you? That it could be real?”
“Riley.” She spoke in an un-Julie-like calm, as if she were trying to talk a mental patient off a ledge. “This show’s nothing but an extended fraud. You know it. I know it. Scott knows it. The only one who doesn’t know it is Max.”
“Then for once . . .” He carded his fingers through his hair. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but for once, Max is right.”
He tugged the clipboard out of her hands and steered her to the chair, then sat on the edge of the bed opposite her. “This story may be a minor rung on your Hollywood ladder, but it’s way more than that to me. I wouldn’t ask you to go out on a limb with Scott if it weren’t absolutely vital.” He tossed the clipboard aside and took her hands in a tight grip. “I didn’t tell you before because I didn’t want to worry you, but there’s more at stake here than either of our careers.”
She attempted to tug her hands free. “What could be more important—and since when do you hide things from me?”
“I—”
“Wait a minute.” Her eyes narrowed. “This is about that scum-sucking asswipe Logan, isn’t it?”
Riley reined in his frustration—barely. He didn’t have time to talk Julie down from a Logan-hating rampage. “This is about you and me, Jules. You went to the mat for me to pitch this episode, forced me to participate way more than was comfortable, all in the name of promoting me to Scott. Suddenly you’ve changed your mind, decided I’m not worth it?”
“It’s not that. I mean, it’s not like we’ve scrubbed the whole shoot, and with all those background scenes we filmed, you’ll have almost as much screen time as Max.”
“Except I never wanted screen time. Jules, you realize you’re treating me the same way you treat him, don’t you? Like a child who has to be kept occupied so he won’t interfere with the adults’ important work, and won’t notice their condescension.”
She scowled. “I do no such thing. But I know the industry and I know Scott, and you don’t. It makes sense for me to keep you where—”
“Where he won’t notice I can’t do my job?”
“You can so do your job. The first one who says you can’t—”
“Jules. That would be you.”
Her scowl faded, and she blinked. “Shit.” She pursed her lips and puffed out a breath. “Fine. If I ever imply that you can’t do your job, or if I ever treat you like Max again, you have my permission to kick my ass.”
“Consider it kicked.” He gave her hands a final squeeze, picked up the clipboard, and held it out. “Here. You know where I need to be.”
“But Scott wants—”
“The only way Scott knows what he wants is if you tell him. Come on.” He poked her shoulder. “Are you the UPM—soon to be showrunner—or just another Production Bitch? Who makes the damn schedules around here anyway? Max freaking Stone?”
She straightened and snatched the clipboard from his hands. Yeah, that was his Jules. Challenge her territory and the Valkyrie donned the horned helmet, the brass-plated bra, and charged.
“Fuck this pencil shit.” She pulled a Sharpie out of the pocket of her fleece vest and wrote his name in giant black letters under the list of crew assigned to the Witch’s Castle location. “You’re on. After all . . .” Her wicked grin wouldn’t be out of place on a Viking berserker. “It’s your story.”
After he left the hotel, Logan had tried to catch some sleep, but the look on Riley’s face had haunted him every time he closed his eyes—the total betrayal, when Riley had realized that Logan had destroyed his work on purpose. It was enough to keep him tossing on his mattress, despite his bone-deep weariness.
Christ, he hadn’t thought, had he? Hadn’t made any attempt to remove only the Witch’s Castle files. Maybe he should have been less ham-fisted about it, but nothing he could do about i
t now. He’d taken his shot, and now he had to live with it. Or not live. Depending on how the next twenty-four hours played out.
Better this way. He’ll hate you, but at least he’ll be alive, and when you die, he won’t miss you as much.
At noon, he still hadn’t gotten beyond staring at his ceiling when Max called him on his cell phone, demanding his presence at another of those fucking production meetings.
Could he sit in one of those meetings and watch Riley not meet his eyes? A cold fist closed around Logan’s heart. Shit. Riley would take the fall for the stuff Logan had wiped from the laptop. He was likely to get reamed by his boss. Maybe he’d get fired after all.
A double-helix of guilt and relief spiraled up Logan’s core. Was he a total shithead for half hoping Riley lost his job? Probably, but it was the one foolproof way to keep him and his home-grown ghost remedies away from the site.
Riley could go back to school, to the kind of folklore fieldwork his advisor had always intended him to do.
It would be good for him. Logan had to believe that.
“Logan? Did you hear me?” Figured that Max’s petulant tone carried perfectly on Logan’s crappy phone. “The meeting starts in twenty.”
Call him a fucking coward, but he couldn’t watch Riley’s humiliation play out in front of a room full of jaded Hollywood types.
“Sorry, Max. I can’t. You shouldn’t need a bodyguard at your own production meeting. I’ll pick you up afterwards, and we’ll hang for the rest of the day.”
“Weeellll, I guess that’s okay, although Scott may wonder where you are.”
“Scott doesn’t even know my name. Just tell him tattoo bodyguard guy will be at your back tonight.”
He hung up and wandered around his shitty apartment. Was it worth packing anything up? Other than his clothes, he had nothing except a few dishes. A couple of towels. Some bedding. The landlord was free to add them to his library of crappy furnishings and soak the next tenant for them.
Stumptown Spirits Page 19
