by Dana Fredsti
After that, both women rise in the air, and then unite to attack the real big bad—Louis—who brings down torrential rains, the drops of water turning into spiders and other creepy-crawlies as they hit the ground.
“Are you using a rain tower for this bit?” I asked Daphne.
“That is still up in the air,” she said. “I have an in with a local weather witch, but I need to do a test run with him to make sure he can stop the rain when we need it to stop, make sure it stays within certain perimeters, so the equipment doesn’t get wet. Things like that. I have a rain tower standing by if we need it.”
“Nice,” I said, and went back to studying the storyboards.
“Well?” Devon stared at me eagerly.
“It looks like The Serpent and the Rainbow and Big Trouble in Little China had a love child.” I spoke without thinking. Then I noticed everyone’s expression, and hastily added, “I mean that in the best possible way, of course.”
Cayden gave a shout of laughter. “We freely admit to having been influenced by both,” he admitted.
I found a sequence where Perrine springs from the ground to a nearby tree and perches on a branch like a big cat. Marie’s movements as depicted in the same scene were less feline and more suited to… well, more suited to things I excelled at.
I had to shake my head. Shifters were strong, often preternaturally graceful, and capable of physical feats beyond that of mere mortals like me. I guess some of them were also egocentric. Honestly, if Leandra wasn’t such a prima donna when it came to the possibility of chipping a fingernail or something equally horrifying, she was more than capable of doing her own stunts. Not that I was complaining. I needed the work.
“Principal photography starts in five days and we’re going to tackle the stunt-heavy scenes first,” Devon said. “That means you’ll have four days to train and choreograph the big voodoo battle extraordinaire.”
Cayden nodded. “Lee, I’d like you to handle training Angelique and Langdon, teach them basics in hand-to-hand and swordplay. They won’t have complicated choreography, but what they have needs to be solid.”
“Not a problem,” I said, flashing a smile at Angelique. She looked as excited as a kid on her first trip to Disneyland.
“Cayden says you’re one of the best,” she offered. “I can’t wait to learn what you have to teach!”
Devon stepped back in. “Now we’ll be going over the shot list for all the stunts, who’s doing each one, how many people are involved, which location they’re going to be shot at, all of it. We’ve already been to the locations and our esteemed stunt coordinator—” he nodded at Cayden “—is happy with them. If he’s happy, I’m happy. If I’m happy, everyone else should be fucking delirious with joy.”
Devon gave a little laugh to let everyone know he was kidding, but I somehow didn’t think he was. There was a certain edge underneath his “all for one and one for all” camaraderie that flashed a hazard light—warning, dictator ahead. I’d met the type before. Jovial and fun as long as things were going his way, tantrum-throwing bully when things weren’t. Everyone’s best friend at the expensive and lavish after-party to help people forget what a jerk he could be on set. Still, I liked the way the shoot seemed to be coming together and the fact that Devon was open to giving his stunt team some lead time. That wasn’t something all productions were willing to do.
Also, considering the amount of Marlborough Man Macho generated by Devon—I wasn’t even counting the walking, breathing perfect storm of testosterone that was Cayden—it was great to see women in at least two of the key production roles. Yet another mark in Cayden’s—and possibly Devon’s—favor. It was one thing for a man to surround himself with arm candy to make an impression and feed his ego. It was something else entirely to surround himself with competent women on the job. I didn’t get any sense that either Daphne or Jen were in any way intimidated by either of the men in charge. I doubt Jen was intimidated by much of anything.
So far this year I had met two men who were much more than first met the eye. Cayden and Randy. They were about as unlike each other as was possible, but I was starting to learn that first impressions weren’t always the best indicator. I never really had the patience to dig very deeply under an obnoxious facade. That, of course, made me start to wonder what people thought the first time they met me. A-a-and that’s enough introspection. I turned my full attention back to the meeting.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Hands clapping. Feet stomping. Voices chanting. Torches burning along the perimeter of a clearing. The dark vegetal smell of the swamp mixed with burning herbs, flowers, things pleasing to the loas. Sweat poured freely from all of the participants—the summer heat and humidity lay like a damp wool blanket over the city and the surrounding swamps. Bronze John was a much-feared visitor, but had not made his presence known for two years.
I looked across the clearing at Marie, our priestess. High, strong cheekbones, smooth skin the color of café au lait. She had the bearing of a queen. Was it any wonder that we all worshiped her only slightly less than the loas? All of us except, perhaps, Perrine. Younger than Marie, beautiful and strong, but without the calm center of Marie Laveau.
But I didn’t want to think about Perrine right now. I knew she was up to something bad. Something dangerous. I intended to find out what it was and stop her. But not tonight.
This was not one of the public spectacles ostensibly held for slaves in Congo Square or on the shores of Bayou St. John, where it was becoming the rage for white people to show up and watch the supposed dark rituals of “degenerate savages,” as one sanctimonious newspaper referred to anyone with even a drop of black blood in them. Luckily, people like him were not privy to these more private rituals, held further away from the city limits on the outskirts of a bayou where few people dared to venture. Bayou Ef’tageux was not for the faint of heart. Supposedly, the gators that inhabited the Bayou beyond the Veil were twice the size of normal gators. Strange lights were seen dancing around through the moss-laden cypress trees, and shrieks tore through the night that could raise hair on a bald man.
It was here that the true serviteurs came, hoping the voodoo queen would help raise the loas and solve their problems. Me? I wanted to speak to my mother, dead along with my father these past twenty years. I barely remembered either of them, but only they would have answers to the questions that had been popping up in my life this past year. And if I couldn’t speak to my mother, then maybe one of the loas would take pity on me and grant me the wisdom to answer these questions myself.
I caught Étienne’s gaze across the clearing, where he stomped his feet and clapped his hands along with the rest of the devotees. I could feel that rhythm in my blood, wanting to take over.
So I let it.
Closing my eyes, I swayed back and forth to the rhythm of hands clapping, feet stomping. Felt myself start to drift out of my body as something else tried to take over. I felt wind on the back of my neck as the loa sought entrance. Mounting me. Riding me. My body swayed harder, head, arms, and legs moving with abandon. Opening my eyes, I saw Étienne standing in front of me, a wide grin on his face, eyes alight with a fire not his own. I smiled back. We had been chosen by Erzulie and Baron Samedi, and now we would—
* * *
The theme from Jaws pulled me out of my dream before I could find out what happened next. Although I suspected hot sex was involved.
Damn.
Still half-asleep, I let the images of the dream play through my head, wondering why my subconscious was so enamored of the plot of Voodoo Wars. Interesting that it chose not to cast either Leandra or Angelique in the roles of Marie and Perrine. And who was this hunky Étienne? I wished I had another hour to rest and mull it all over, but today was an early call time—7 A.M. early. I had to get my butt in gear. Today was the first day we’d be rehearsing at one of the primary locations and it was a bit of a drive.
A quick shower and an even quicker cup of coffee later, I met Langdon and t
he Ginga twins in the lobby, where we were greeted by Micah.
“Y’all set for a day in the swamp?” he said with an easy grin. He was seemingly impervious to stress, a quality highly valued on a film set.
“When you live in the Northern Territory,” Ike said, “a little swamp like you have here is nothing.”
“How far is the drive?” Langdon asked.
“’Bout an hour and a half,” Micah replied.
Langdon shot a look at the Ginga brothers. “Now you two aren’t going to start again, right?”
“Start what?” Mike asked, the picture of innocence.
I’d made the mistake of starting a chant of “Are we there yet?” the day before on our way to the rehearsal studio. Mike and Ike had embraced it wholeheartedly and managed to irritate Langdon to the point of distraction during what was only a ten-minute drive.
“Are we there yet? Are we there yet?” started the second we hit the road.
Micah simply turned the volume up on his iPod and nodded happily in time to whatever music he had playing over his headphones. Langdon, however, looked like he was sucking on lemons—instead of his ever-present Altoids. I’d have felt sorry for him if he hadn’t proven over the last few days to have an insufferable superiority complex. As it was, I smiled and shut my eyes.
Today we were blocking out the action at the location that the script referred to as a “dilapidated manor and bayou.” This was where much of the voodoo ceremony and titular “wars” would take place, so the stunt team needed to get an idea of what kind of terrain we’d be working with and make sure the choreography we’d come up with would work. The location, Bayou Ef’tageux, was a few acres of privately owned land an hour and change outside of New Orleans, tucked away near one of the nature preserves that promised alligators and boars. Did we really want to be filming with the possibility of either alligators or boars making unexpected cameos? I had my doubts.
I’d almost drifted off, but a jarring thump woke me up and I opened my eyes. We were no longer on the nicely paved road, but instead were on a not-so-nice dirt road, loosely scattered with gravel to prevent vehicles from miring in mud during rainy weather. Micah’s ancient Cadillac hit every bump with commitment. The twins loved it, Langdon not so much. He whined every time the car hit another pothole.
The Caddy hit an especially deep rut in the road, causing all of us to rise up from our seats—Langdon hitting his head against the car’s ceiling—and come back down with tail-bone-jarring force. The twins laughed as if this was the funniest thing ever.
“Are we there yet?”
“Oh, good god,” Langdon snapped, “this is ridiculous!”
He pulled out the directions we’d all received—just in case someone missed their provided ride and needed to call a Lyft because this place was not on any GPS—and peered at it as if looking for lost treasure. He tapped Micah insistently on one shoulder, refusing to stop until Micah took out one of his earbuds and grunted by way of acknowledging the ghoul.
“We should be there by now,” Langdon said. “It says the house is less than a mile or so off this godforsaken road.”
“Almost there,” Micah said serenely. He started to re-insert the earbud, but Langdon tapped his shoulder.
“How much further?”
“Maybe half a mile.”
We started to pass a turnoff almost hidden by overgrowth of grass, bushes and cypress trees.
“Says to park at the end of the drive,” Langdon told Micah.
“That ain’t a drive,” Micah drawled. “That’s a dirt track.” He slowed to a stop anyway, and we all looked at the track.
“Maybe it has delusions of grandeur,” I suggested. Calling it a “drive” would be like calling a tract home a manor.
Micah shook his head. “This place ain’t seen any love for a good ten years or more. The potholes have potholes. I hate to think of drivin’ my car down there. Maybe I’ll use the dolly to haul stuff in.”
“Surely you don’t expect us to walk.” Langdon’s tone was pure affronted outrage. I suspected it was totally for show since as a ghoul he’d walked in more disgusting places than this.
“You want Micah should haul you on the dolly?” I cheerfully inquired.
Langdon giggled, a sound so incongruous and creepy it made even Micah grimace. I didn’t blame him. Some supernatural types are user-friendly and some are not. Ghouls—even civilized ones—take some getting used to.
A lot of the action took place here. Perrine—Marie Laveau’s rival for both the affections of her lover and title of Queen of Voodoo in New Orleans—has enlisted the help of Louis LaLaurie to offer a blood sacrifice to win the affections of Étienne and strip Marie of her powers. Little does Perrine know that Louis aspires to win the heart of Laveau, and has told her of Perrine’s plans, as well as sacrificing Étienne to his gods. Marie shows up in the midst of all the blood, incantations, and throbbing voodoo drums. An over-the-top magical fight ensues, complete with swords, hand-to-hand and other shenanigans.
Angelique and I had started working with Cayden and Mike’n’Ike, choreographing a series of set pieces that would be put together in post-production and supplemented with special effects. Cayden and Devon wanted to film the magical duel next to the bayou on this property, and I was looking forward to seeing what kind of practical effects we could get away with in such an isolated location.
See, one of the benefits of a largely supe cast and crew on any production is the time and money saved on things like FX and specialty makeup, anything from transformation scenes in monster movies to irises changing color.
We had a slew of local extras coming out over the next couple of weeks—all supes, mostly shifters and those all related to Angelique and Leandra—for the voodoo ritual scenes. Lots of drums and dancing and snake handling, and utilizing their shifting to emphasize the dream-like qualities of the rituals.
Although in my dreams, the drums weren’t there. The rhythm was kept by the stomping of feet, the clapping of hands…
I shook my head to clear it of the phantom smell of burning herbs and the thick scent of the bayou. Green vegetation, both fertile and rotting underneath…
“You okay, Lee?”
I glanced up to find Micah looking at me quizzically.
“Yeah, fine,” I replied. “What is this place? Or what was it, rather?”
He shrugged. “Used to belong to a Creole gentleman, wanted a place to keep his mistress. His wife didn’t much like her man having a bit on the side, especially one she considered inferior.”
Langdon looked puzzled. “I thought Creoles were gens de couleur libres,” he said. Turning to me, he put on his best “I am going to teach you” expression and continued, “That means—”
“Free people of color,” I broke in before he could educate me yet again. Langdon meant well, but his tendency to ghoulsplain got on my nerves. “Yes, I know.”
“Not always.” Micah said, not bothering to hide his smirk at my interruption. Popping open the trunk, he pulled out a folding handcart, flipping it open. “See,” he said as he loaded up the cart with flats of bottled water and soda, “créole originally meant someone born outside the country their folks originated from. You got white folk descended from the French and Spanish that came here back in the day. Then you got the folks who are a combo of African and French or Spanish. They’re what most people think of when they hear the word Creole, especially in New Orleans.”
“Are you sure?” Langdon’s pale brow furrowed. “I did some reading on the subject before coming out here and…”
I edged away from the pair. I wanted some time to look around by myself and get a feel for the lay of the land, not to mention get away from Langdon’s need to know everything better than anyone else.
I stepped carefully as I followed the dirt track around the bend. One misstep in any of the many potholes could mean a twisted ankle or worse, a sprain or a fracture, and wouldn’t that be embarrassing before we even started filming, no matter how
fast I healed. I hoped the clearing we’d be filming in had better footing.
Rounding the curve, I stopped and stared. The house must have been beautiful when it was built, but now that beauty was moldering. Weathered gray boards, warped so that the corners were offset like a model put together by an impatient kid. The roof was all catawampus, and I didn’t even want to think about what creepy-crawlies might be lurking inside. The whole place looked and felt sad, and what was left was a case of good bones shining through even though the skin sagged with wrinkles, sloughing off in places. Just a quick glance at the veranda that ran the length of the front of the house made me wonder if it would hold my weight, let alone camera and sound equipment, lights, craft service tables, hand carts and costume racks.
I took a tentative step onto the veranda, wincing at the resulting groan as the board protested at my weight. The location scout must have tested it out, hopefully by jumping up and down on it a few times. No one in their right mind would leave something like that up to fate. I mean, Cayden alone weighed more than a lot of men and if he hadn’t crashed through rotted flooring, the rest of us were probably safe.
Langdon came up beside me and stared at the structure. “We’re filming here?”
“Guess so. And they need to set up craft service somewhere inside.”
“I’m not much of a swamp type of guy,” Langdon offered.
“Do ghouls have a preference?”
“Desert. Definitely desert.”
I thought about that. “What about, like, temperate beaches? San Diego or Los Angeles?”
“They’ll do in a pinch,” he said with a shrug. “But give me hot and dry any day.”
“Are there ghouls who like the tropics?”
“Certainly,” Langdon replied. “Some prefer their meat falling off the bone. Kind of like putting a whole chicken in a crockpot. It gets slow cooked, has quite a lovely aroma.”
Eeeeew. I tried not to let my distaste show on my face. To each his own, right? Except Eeeeew!
