by Dana Fredsti
“Oh, I will,” I assured him, “but unless this is some sort of bizarre initiation rite where I’m expected to match you drink for drink, I’ll take my time. You still haven’t told me when and where I’m expected to show up bright-eyed and bouncy tomorrow morning.”
“Tomorrow’s all about sitting down with the rest of the stunt team, the FX coordinator, and the director while our line producer does any last-minute finagling needed for locations, rentals, all that.” He gave a vague wave of one hand. “We’ll be starting early enough when shooting begins. We’re giving people a break tomorrow. 10 A.M.”
I could live with that. “Okay, I’ll have another when I’m finished with this one.”
“Drinking contest?”
“Oh, please,” I scoffed. “We’re not in college anymore.”
“Were you ever in college? It doesn’t seem like your thing.”
“I went to community college for a year before dropping out. I already knew exactly what I wanted to do, which was stunts. I really only went to satisfy Sean, who wanted me to ‘explore all my options’ before committing to KSC.”
Cayden let out a guffaw.
“What’s so funny about that?” I asked defensively.
“It’s such a cliché,” he said with a scornful shake of his head. “‘Explore all your options.’ Authority figures, parents, uncles, gods, whatever, they never give people the benefit of the doubt, never believe we might actually know exactly what we want to do without exploring any of their perceived ‘options.’”
“A lot of kids don’t really know what they want, though, do they?”
Another shrug. “Some of us did.”
“Does this mean I’m gonna get some backstory on you?” I leaned forward almost unconsciously.
“No.”
The bluntness of his reply and uncompromising tone pushed me back into my seat like a physical shove. I waited for him to follow it up with some sort of apology, something along the lines of “Not to be rude, but…” but all I got was that damn grin.
I shook my head, my mouth twisting into an exasperated grimace. Why had I expected him to act like a normal person? Or even a semi-normal one? Was he ever not an asshole?
The waitress returned with not one, but two more Abitas. Cayden poured mine into my glass with a practiced skill that was oddly graceful for someone his size. His hand engulfed the glass. Long fingers, strong.
A killer’s hands…
Now where the hell had that thought come from? Had I made a huge mistake taking this job? Were Randy, Sean, and Seth right?
Hell, no, I immediately answered myself. Maybe if I’d had any other offers in the works, the answer would be different. Besides, there were directors and producers out there much worse than Cayden.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
A few minutes later, the others began to arrive. First to appear was Langdon Pinkton-Smythe—a name only slightly more pretentious than the actor who claimed it. Wearing trousers and a white silk shirt with a cravat, he looked like he’d wandered off the set of a Noël Coward play. Popping an Altoid into his mouth, he tucked the tin into his jacket pocket and offered a pale hand, long fingers outstretched like spider legs. I shook it, managing not to react to the feel of Langdon’s cold, clammy skin, partly because I knew he was a ghoul and also because I didn’t want to offend him since we shared Faustina Corbin as our agent.
There’d been some trouble a year or so ago when Langdon had allegedly tried to take a bite out of an extra who’d passed out from low blood sugar—one of these twenty-somethings trying to work her way to a size two by not eating. Langdon swore, however, that he didn’t do it. “Why would I eat someone when they’re still alive?” he’d said in an interview for one of the few Industry websites that was exclusively for supes. “It would be like eating kimchi before it’s buried in the ground to marinate.” I remember thinking it was a valid, if somewhat gross analogy. This was his first decent job since that incident.
Tall and lean, Landon had a thin, almost gaunt face that just skirted the edges of handsome. If he played his cards right, he could follow in the footsteps of Lance Henriksen and Steve Buscemi.
Part of me wanted to ask Langdon if the rumors about him trying to sample the extras buffet a little too literally were true. The more mature side of me knew that it would be rude. And as long as he stuck to his prepackaged ghoul Happy Meals, it didn’t really matter.
But, man, all the Altoids in the world could not quite cover the sweet-and-sour scent of decay that wafted out of his mouth.
“Langdon’s playing Louis, Delphine LaLaurie’s husband,” Cayden said casually.
“Her third husband,” Langdon amended. “The surgeon. And the villain of the piece.”
“Ah,” I said. “Do you think he had any part in the torture of their slaves?”
“So hard to know truth from fiction,” the actor replied in an affected drawl, “but for the sake of a good story, I’ll err on the side of him being at least as evil as his wife, if not the true evil genius behind the atrocities.”
Regardless of whether or not he’d tried to eat an extra, there was no doubt Langdon was a total drama queen.
“Langdon has done some stunt work,” Cayden informed me.
The actor nodded. “Got my start in the Alive or Zed series a few years back,” he told me with a toothy grin. “Whenever they needed someone to be buried alive or to break out of airless tombs or coffins, I was their go-to.”
“Uh… nice,” I said politely. It made sense, though. When you wanted to get a zom crawling out of its grave and had a limited budget, the shots were easier when the actor or stunt player didn’t have to breathe. “Do you consider yourself a stuntman who can act or an actor who does some stunts?”
“Same thing, yes?”
I shook my head. “Not necessarily. If you go the Hooper route,” I said, referring to director Hal Needham’s iconic film tribute to stuntmen and stuntwomen, “you’re a stuntman who can act. Burt Reynolds, for instance, started out as a stuntman. On the other hand, there are actors out there who are physically capable of doing some of their own stunts.”
“Like Tim Journey?”
“No,” I said emphatically. “I mean, yes, he kicks ass doing his own stunts, but aside from being more than a little crazypants, he’s also unseelie Fae, which gives him some mad skills.”
“Am I late?”
I looked up to see a statuesque woman standing at the patio entrance, a long-sleeved, forest-green sweater dress clinging to curves Jayne Mansfield might have envied. A fall of wavy dark hair and startlingly green eyes made her irregular features beautiful.
Slowly and deliberately, she walked toward our table. The way she moved, her eyes, her attitude… all screamed, “I am feline, hear me meow!” Don’t get me wrong. It wasn’t like she was trying too hard to be Cat Woman or the kind of girl who thinks Black Magic Woman is her personal anthem. Unless I was mistaken—and I wasn’t—she was the product of actual feline therianthropy. In other words, what we had here, folks, was some sort of werecat. And she was totally working it.
As a general rule, I like cats, but I got the feeling this little kitty was one of the ones that gave felines a reputation for being assholes—you know, the ones on YouTube videos that are always deliberately knocking shit off counters or ambushing people or dogs. I’d definitely keep my eyes open. Our werecat, however, currently had eyes only for Cayden. The rest of us might as well have been part of a matte painting backdrop.
“Ah, Leandra,” Cayden greeted her. “Trust you to make an entrance.”
“Always, darling,” she purred.
“Leandra Marcadet,” he continued, “this is Lee Striga. Leandra is playing Marie Laveau. Leandra, Lee here will be stunt doubling you.” Glancing back at me he added, “Leandra and Angelique are cousins, by the way.”
Leandra finally tore her gaze away from Cayden and looked at me, the smoldering fire in those green eyes dying down until they seemed to be rimmed with frost. My sto
mach gave an unpleasant flip, as if the crawdads were turning against me.
Oh, she does not like me.
Then she smiled, surprising me by swooping over to give me a hug, pressing her cheek against mine and enveloping me in a dark, opulent fragrance. Sandalwood, cinnamon, something with a spicy floral note. Geranium, maybe. Or possibly the inside of a Venus flytrap.
“We will be friends,” she murmured, like a five-year-old at summer camp.
Or not. Her tone was warm, but my gut didn’t believe it. Although maybe I just needed some Tums. Out loud I said, “Looking forward to working with you,” trying to infuse my own voice with some warmth. Even to my own ears, however, I sounded stilted and overly formal, like someone at a really boring high tea.
Leandra Marcadet sauntered around the table and sat next to Cayden, scooching her chair as close to his as possible.
“I hope you’ll forgive the assumption,” I said, “but if you don’t mind my asking—” or even if you do “—why do you need a stunt double? You obviously have the physical capabilities to do pretty much anything, much like your cousin.”
“I’m an actress, cher,” Leandra replied. Now why did cher sound so nice coming from Angelique and so condescending when spoken by Leandra? She looked me up and down with a sneer disguised as a smile—yeah, I could tell the difference. “You, on the other hand, are a stuntwoman. You get paid to risk yourself. To fall from buildings or set yourself on fire. I get paid to act, and to be beautiful. I cannot afford injury or harm to my face or physique. You and Angelique, on the other hand…” She gave a small, tinkling laugh as her words trailed off.
Oh yeah, we were gonna be bestest buddies.
“Well,” I replied, “someone has to make you actors look good.”
Her eyes narrowed and damned if her ears didn’t flatten a little. Score.
I fully expected her to start wriggling her haunches and attack me, but instead she pulled her chair as close to Cayden’s as possible without actually sitting in his lap. He looked bored and smug at the same time.
Cayden, thy name is ambiguity.
Catching Langdon’s eye roll, I hid a grin of my own. Compared to the lead actress on Pale Dreamer, who’d lived up to her reputation as the diva from hell, Leandra would be a piece of cake. Not particularly good cake, but cake nonetheless. It was kind of like going from Voldemort to Dobby. One was evil, the other just irritating.
Besides, I only had to double Leandra—I didn’t have to like her.
* * *
“Sorry, Tiff, but I’m just not up to going out.” Star paused to cough, then added, “I feel horrible. Momma thinks I have the flu or something.”
Tiffany rolled her eyes even though there was no one to see her. Star’s momma worried all the damn time, coddling her daughter so much it was a wonder she ever let Star leave the house. Not like Tiffany’s mother, who couldn’t be bothered to keep track of her daughter’s comings and goings.
“You know I’d love to go out, but I’m just so tired—”
“Fine,” Tiffany interrupted with a petulant edge to her voice. “I’ll just call Liz.” She’d already tried Cherry, but she hadn’t answered the phone.
“Liz isn’t feeling so good either,” Star replied. Her voice sounded feeble, as if it took real effort for her to talk.
That would be a first, Tiffany thought.
“Anyway,” Star continued, “I have to go. Momma says I need to sleep because—”
“Yeah, whatever.”
Tiffany hit the “end call” button and tossed her phone onto her bed, heaving a put-upon sigh that turned quickly into a nasty bout of coughing. The deep rattling in her chest took her unpleasantly by surprise. She’d felt fine a moment ago.
What the fuck? She was seized by another racking coughing fit. This time, when she lowered her hand, it was covered in red phlegm. She almost yelled for her mother but changed her mind. Her mom wouldn’t know what to do if Tiffany was really ill, even if she cared enough to try. Besides, now that she thought about it, Momma had gone out for drinks with friends, which meant she wouldn’t be home for hours.
If Tiffany was honest with herself—something she rarely indulged in—she would have admitted her disdain toward Star and her momma’s overly protective attitude was pure jealousy. But that would involve self-introspection, and that would not end well. Narcissism ran in the family.
Throwing herself on the bed next to her phone, Tiffany wavered between the impulse to call Liz despite Star’s words or—a more sensible choice—giving up and getting some sleep. She really didn’t feel well. Before she could make up her mind, however, her phone’s text tone went off. She rolled over and looked at her text messages.
What R U doing?
Blaise. Not exactly a boyfriend—his family didn’t make enough money to put him in that category. He was definitely more of a Juan’s Flying Burrito date than someone who’d take her to Commander’s Palace. But, oh, he was mighty pretty. She thought briefly of telling him she was too sick for company, but dismissed the idea before it was fully born. Even if she was coming down with whatever grunge Star and Liz had, she certainly wasn’t going to pass up a chance to have sex with Blaise. She’d make it up to him if he caught something from her.
Nothing. Bored. Wanna come over?
U actually gonna be there?
She’d promised to meet him the other night and had been an hour late. He’d been pissed but hadn’t done anything like hit her. Just told her in no uncertain terms that being late was disrespectful of his time, and if it happened again, they were over. She still hadn’t made up her mind if she wanted to test his resolve. Tiffany had a lot of confidence in her sex appeal, but Blaise was stubborn. He didn’t put up with her temper tantrums and she liked that—at least where Blaise was concerned.
I’ll be here. I promise.
Cool. C U soon.
Getting slowly to her feet, Tiffany went over to her antique dressing table and peered at herself in the mirror. It was one of those old mercury ones that gave back a soft, flattering reflection. Not that Tiffany usually needed any help from a stupid old mirror. Now, however, she looked like crap, all dark hollows under her eyes, almost bruised. She tried a smile on for size, frowning when she saw what looked like brownish stains on her teeth. She leaned in to examine them closer, wincing as she caught a whiff of her breath. It smelled sickly-sweet and sour at the same time. Like daiquiri vomit.
Ugh.
First things first, and that was to brush her teeth. Then she’d do some magic with makeup and light some candles. Her momma always told her that candlelight hid a multitude of sins.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
We were joined in short order by Devon Manus, the director and co-writer of Voodoo Wars. A well-built man in that ageless sweet spot somewhere between thirty and fifty. Sun-burnished blond hair, dark tan. Brown eyes with sunbursts of copper around the pupil. If Leandra smelled like the inside of an incense factory, Devon smelled like he’d rolled in a bale of hay and rubbed his pulse points with leather. Definitely a more pleasant aroma than the faint but distinct whiff of decomposing meat that wafted out of Langdon’s mouth.
I stopped my brain from going down a ghoul-related “you are what you eat” wormhole and brought my attention back to Devon “Manly Man” Manus. He had all the attributes I associated with someone in stunts, although his crisp khaki pants and white cotton shirt were too clean and too expensive to fit the profile. Still, I fully expected him and Cayden to reenact Ah-nold and Carl Weathers’ bromantic arm-wrestling match from Predator. They both had the biceps and forearms for it. Instead, Cayden just nodded and said, “You’ve met Leandra and Langdon.” He nodded in my direction and added, “This is Lee Striga.”
“No, please don’t get to your feet,” Devon Manus said, even though I hadn’t actually made a move to do so. His accent was pure Crocodile Dundee, and if that wasn’t a crocodile tooth dangling from the leather cord around his neck, I’d eat vegemite.
Well, no, I real
ly wouldn’t.
“After all,” he continued, “you’ll be doing plenty of that when we start filming.”
How he managed to make something so innocuous sound suggestive was a mystery I didn’t care to solve.
“I see why you and Cayden are friends,” I said neutrally.
Cayden laughed. “In case you were wondering, Dev, that wasn’t a compliment.”
“Didn’t think so.” Devon looked at me appreciatively. “You didn’t exaggerate. She’s a right feisty one.”
Oh, spare me.
“So,” I inquired sweetly, “are you really Australian? Or do you just play one on TV?”
Both men roared with laughter, Langdon chuckling politely to avoid being left out of the male camaraderie. Leandra raised an eyebrow as if shocked at my bad manners.
Hypocrite.
“Half Aussie, half Irish,” Devon admitted cheerfully, taking the accent down a few notches. He slid into a chair next to me without an invitation. Fair enough since this was his film. “My Irish half is gancanagh, if you’re curious.” He pronounced it “gan-KHAN-och.” Whatever, it’s basically a sexed-up leprechaun.
“What’s the Australian half?” I asked, even though I knew better.
“All man,” he said with a grin.
“Seriously,” I said, “are you and Cayden related?”
“We’re all related if you go back far enough, acushla,” he replied with a grin and a practiced twinkle in his eye. Laying the Irish on thick didn’t help his cause as far as I was concerned.
“Er, Dev…” Cayden gave a very small shake of his head.
“Ah, my apologies, Miss Striga.” He paused, then added, “Or do you prefer Ms.?”
“You can call me whatever you want as long as you accept the risk that I might haul off and punch you if I don’t like it.”
If this had been a sitcom, the audience reaction would have been all indrawn breaths and “ooOOOoooh!” Maybe a “oh no she di’n’t” tossed in for good measure. Instead we got a well-timed interruption from the waitress bearing an overflowing tray of drinks. Beers for everyone except Leandra, who preferred white wine spritzers.
