by Dana Fredsti
Contents
Cover
Also by Dana Fredsti
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also Available from Titan Books
BLOOD INK
ALSO BY DANA FREDSTI
THE LILITH SERIES
The Spawn of Lilith
Blood Ink
THE ASHLEY PARKER NOVELS
Plague Town
Plague Nation
Plague World
A Man’s Gotta Eat What a Man’s Gotta Eat (e-original novella)
BY DANA FREDSTI AND DAVID FITZGERALD
Time Shards
Shatter War (coming soon)
BLOOD INK
DANA FREDSTI
TITAN BOOKS
BLOOD INK
Print edition ISBN: 9781785652622
Electronic edition ISBN: 9781785652639
Published by Titan Books
A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd
144 Southwark St, London SE1 0UP
First edition: April 2019
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
Copyright © 2019 Dana Fredsti. All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
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To my mother, Dorothy Carol Galante.
You had the best laugh in the world, and I’d travel
through hell dimensions to hear it again.
The ads all call me fearless, but that’s just publicity. Anyone who thinks I’m not scared out of my mind whenever I do one of my stunts is crazier than I am.
—Jackie Chan
The art of stunt-making is not about falling down; it’s about getting the shot. Creating stunts is creating heroes.
—Chad Stahelski
I do all my own stunts. I’m kidding.
—Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson
PROLOGUE
It was born of love, but transformed by hate. Now it dwelt in chaos.
And it dwelt alone.
The thing’s unimaginable form alone was enough to provoke insanity. The hint of serpentine tentacles, the insane clusters of its eyes, its skeletal, grasping limbs, and its proportions too horrible, too terrifying, too mind-wrecking for the crude animal brain of a human to comprehend.
Its predecessors had emerged from the primal chaos long eons ago—from the same unfathomable dimension in which it now swam—a place of exotic nebulae and roiling cosmic pandemonium, where physics ran amok, where space and time, existence and nothingness, sense and madness all had strange new meanings.
Here, in the vast infinite space of this utterly inexplicable dimension, it moved and intermingled with myriad bewildering entities. Cold and unsympathetic ancient intelligences. Frightening beings born of nightmares, and all manner of unearthly creatures high and low. Some paid it no heed whatsoever, others gave it a wary kind of respect, and still others it hunted and feasted upon when it encountered them.
It had no equal. Nothing that could provide conversation or companionship. It had been this way ever since it had consumed its mate.
Virtually no single aspect of the thing could be safely encompassed by the human mind. But even while it undulated in the black depths of its howling abyss, the thing would at times contemplate its existence, and the barely remembered shape it once possessed, so very long ago.
It recalled, with difficulty, many strange sensations. The constant tug of gravity. The garish brightness of solar radiation warming a gaseous atmosphere. Swimming in an ocean of salt water. Sand beneath its feet. When it was… different.
It seemed to remember, with difficulty, experiencing several alien emotions, though it no longer possessed the words for them. Existing in a much simpler, weaker, short-lived terrestrial larval form… being human. A peculiar warm and engaging state… being loved. Having something, another being separate from itself, that provoked that state…
It could—and still did—experience one vestigial emotional state left over from that nascent embryonic stage. It felt loneliness.
It missed its mother.
CHAPTER ONE
RISE OF THE VAMPSHEES: THE NETHERWORLD CHRONICLES, PART II
EXT. THE DOCKS – NIGHT
A full moon SHINES down on a wooden dock being buffeted by a stormy sea. Waves surge over the sides. A SEAL washes onto the dock… and stands up, seal skin puddling around now human feet. The skin shimmers as masculine hands pick it up.
We SEE the back of a well-built man, GALEN, striding up the dock, wearing form-fitting pants the same color and texture as the sealskin. His footing is sure and swift despite the waves threatening to sweep him back into the ocean. Behind him, other seals converge on the dock, shedding skins as they morph into men and women, and follow the first selkie to…
…A DILAPIDATED WAREHOUSE at the end of the dock, windows boarded up, strips of paint peeling off the exterior.
CUT TO:
INT. WAREHOUSE – NIGHT
The interior of the warehouse is as ramshackle as its exterior. Wooden catwalks line the upper perimeter, and dozens of extraordinarily attractive vampires clad in black leather line the edges. They all stare with glowing red eyes at the floor below, where an equal number of selkies in human form—all dressed in transformed seal-skin garments—glare up at the vampires above them.
Galen steps forward. He stares up at a tall, imposing figure in a black duster. VIGGA, vampire queen with the beauty—and treachery—of a fallen angel.
GALEN
My people are here, Vigga! Many traveled from selkie courts hundreds of miles away. Let us hope the terms of this treaty are worth their journey.
VIGGA
I promise
you, Galen, that this… treaty will once and for all end the hostility between our two races.
CONNOR
(o.s.)
Vigga lies!
All eyes, selkie and vampire alike, turn to the door. CONNOR, handsome half-werewolf, half-selkie, stands in the doorway.
CONNOR
She means to slaughter the selkie folk, not make peace with our people!
Cries of outrage come from both sides at Connor’s words. Vigga smiles.
VIGGA
Surely this intruder is not one of your people, Galen. Since when do werewolves claim kinship with the selkies?
CONNOR
Galen and I are brothers.
GALEN
(bitterly)
We are half-brothers. Born of the same selkie mother, but this half-breed whelp’s father was a bastard werewolf.
LELA
(o.s.)
This “half-breed whelp,” as you call him, is the savior of your people!
CU CONNOR’S FACE…
…as he looks up at the catwalk opposite the one where Vigga stands. He stares in disbelief at a hooded figure.
CONNOR
(in a whisper)
Lela? You’re… You’re alive?
CU HOODED FIGURE…
…as she pushes the hood away from her head to reveal LELA, beautiful half-vampire, half-banshee. She stares down at her former lover with sadness and longing.
LELA
Yes, Connor.
Vigga hisses in fury and hatred.
VIGGA
It cannot be. You killed yourself. You are dead, you half-vampire, half-banshee abomination!
LELA
I am difficult to kill, even by my own hand…
(dramatic pause)
…Aunt Vigga.
VIGGA
Kill her!
GALEN
Destroy the half-breed whelp!
Selkies close in on Connor even as vampires converge on Lela.
Lela leaps up and over the catwalk railing, duster billowing out as she drops to the floor, landing in a crouching position, feet wide apart and supporting her weight with one hand on the floor, the other hand outstretched diagonally upward.
LELA
(looking at her lover)
Hello, Connor.
Connor stares at her, disbelief and love blazing from his eyes.
VIGGA
(in fury)
Nooooooooo!
* * *
Now, that’s where I should have come in. But I didn’t, because on the first movie’s film set, a stunt had gone wrong and I’d ended up in the hospital. When they’d been hiring for the sequel, the stunt coordinator hadn’t thought I was ready to do falls or jumps from any height taller than a bunk bed at the time of production, so the job of doubling Kayley Avondale—perky British ingénue turned action heroine—went to somebody else. The fact that I disliked this “somebody” made it all the harder to be okay with the situation.
What I was doing instead?
* * *
DRAGON DRUID MAGES: FIRES OF CHANGE
EXT. DRUID CLAN CIRCLE – AFTERNOON
A clearing. Dozens of white-robe-clad Druids, holding torches, ring a dais of obsidian rising five feet above the grass. BALTHAR, 30s, darkly handsome in black leather and dragonscale armor, stands in the shadows, watching the ceremony with a sneer.
HIGH MAGE
Druids from every clan gather here to decide who, by rite of passage and right of lineage, will lead the people of this land, the northern tribes.
BALTHAR
(stepping forward)
Nay. The only rights belong to the strong. To those not afraid to fight!
He addresses the rest of the Druids.
BALTHAR
Step away from this antiquated test and join me. Together we will lead the tribes to bloody victory against the Roman conquerors!
MARISA
No!
MARISA steps out of the shadows, face concealed by the pure-white hood of her Druid’s robe. A RED DRAGON is embroidered on the front. She ascends the dais.
MARISA
Balthar speaks half-truths and cleverly concealed lies!
Marisa pushes the hood away from her face, revealing strong yet beautiful features. The face of a virgin warrior queen. Pure yet powerful.
C.U. BALTHAR…
…glaring at her with a mixture of hatred and desire.
MARISA
Balthar will lead us to only death and dishonor. As he attempted to dishonor me with his touch.
BALTHAR
The only lies come from you and your antiquated gods, Dragon Druidess.
He strides up until he is standing face to face with her. Armed warriors on both sides draw their swords. Bows are raised, arrows notched and ready to fly.
BALTHAR
You will not win this fight, Marisa.
(to someone behind him)
Show her the child.
A look of horror crosses Marisa’s face.
MARISA
You cannot mean…
Balthar laughs as two of his warriors drag ILLIAD—five years old—out from behind them.
ILLIAD
Mother!
Marisa turns on Balthar, perfectly shaped lips now contorted in a snarl, the feral look of a lioness whose cub is threatened.
MARISA
Illiad!
Throwing off her white robes to reveal chainmail and leather battle armor, Marisa launches herself off the platform, her staff a lethal whirling weapon of fury and vengeance as she attacks the men holding her son.
BALTHAR
Take the boy to Black Keep!
He joins the fight, driving Marisa back so Balthar’s men can drag Illiad away. All around them, Druids are savagely cut down until only Marisa is left standing.
BALTHAR
You cannot win, Marisa. Surrender now and I will spare your son’s life.
MARISA
Allow me to don my robes of station and I will surrender.
Balthar hesitates, then nods. Marisa returns to the platform, dons her robes, then suddenly lifts her arms to the sky.
MARISA
I invoke Breath of the Dragon!
Flames envelop her, keeping Balthar and his men at bay as she transforms into a dragon, then vanishes into the fire.
BALTHAR
(face contorting with fury)
Nooooooooo!
* * *
This is where I came in—to film Marisa’s leap to the ground and her “lethal whirling weapon of fury and vengeance” as she whomps the crap out of a few tackily clad soldiers before battling Balthar. The wardrobe department had raided a Cosplay’R’Us for the cheap fantasy armor. Perhaps they’d hit a cultists’ discount warehouse for the generic white poly-cotton mage robes.
Gina, the actress playing the titular Dragon Druid Mage, happily handed over her staff and stepped to the side as I took her place on the platform. She was not one of the many actors who want to do their own fights. “I bruise way too easily,” she’d told me. More screen time and more money for me.
I tried to resist the need to tug the chainmail and faux leather bikini either up or down. It wouldn’t cover any more flesh either way.
“Armor, my ass,” I muttered.
“You wish it covered your ass, huh, Lee?” Tommy, the actor playing Balthar, quipped.
He was not wrong. He was also one of the main reasons Gina didn’t want to do any fight choreography. When learning theatrical combat, some people do just fine and dandy with the choreography, but are about as convincing as robots when it comes to selling the fight. Other people put plenty of verve into it, but have less control than five-year-olds chasing each other around with sticks.
Tommy was just a little too enthusiastic with the fight choreography without paying quite enough attention to details like remembering where his targets were. Annoying, but any bruises would fade in a few days, and at least Tommy didn’t have anything to prove—unlike Axel, a Priaptic
demon I’d worked with a few months earlier. Tommy just needed to dial it down a few notches whereas Axel had wanted to hurt me.
Three hours later, it was time for the last shot of the day—Marisa’s Dragon Breath hot flash.
Some stunt performers really love fire gags. They say there’s a rush to it that they don’t get from any other stunt. I am not one of these people. My rush comes from the moment right after the flames are extinguished and I realize I am alive and—hopefully—unsinged.
With the crew and a Los Angeles County fire marshal standing by, I slid into the flesh-colored Nomex “long underwear.” Long-sleeve top, long pants with drawstring, gloves and booties. A hood that covered my hair and neck. The Nomex had been soaked in flame-retardant gel and kept in a cooler full of ice, so putting it on was not fun. We were experiencing a warm SoCal September, but it was still a gooey, cold shock to my system. Still, I was glad to have it slathered on as this was going to be a “hot burn,” meaning I wouldn’t be moving around during the stunt. The flames burn hotter when you’re standing still, which increases the risk of losing eyebrows or worse. I could take feeling like I’d been hit by Slimer in Ghostbusters if it meant keeping my eyelashes.
When I stepped out from behind the makeshift dressing room, the stunt coordinator and his assistants slathered me with more of the gel, making sure my face and all other bits not already protected by Nomex were well covered. Over that went Marissa’s Druid robes. They had been treated with flame-retardant spray. Another lighter version of the Druid robe went on over all of that. The outer layer would burn, but theoretically the under-layers would not. This way we would achieve the effect of the flames without Marissa’s clothes—or me—going up in smoke.
The dragon FX would be added in postproduction. At least the director was committed to getting some of this as a practical effect instead of trying to do the entire thing with CGI. The overall look of it would be less cheesy. Unfortunately, the dialogue, plot and cardboard characters could fill up multiple cheese boards.
Before my accident, things had been very different. I’d been part of the Katz Stunt Crew, one of the top stunt teams in the Industry. It’s run by my Uncle Sean, who’s actually my godfather, but “uncle” rolls off the tongue easier and doesn’t bring to mind the Mob. Most of the team are supes—that’s “supernaturals” for those of us too lazy to use five syllables—I’m one of the few exceptions. Since my fall I’d lived at Sean’s ranch and trained newbies, but I was currently a free agent when it came to stunt work, though not by choice. Sean didn’t think I was ready to get back on the horse, so I’d had to find my own work. Hence Dragon Druid Mages.
