The Spawn of Lilith

by Dana Fredsti

  So I nodded, albeit reluctantly. “Thing is, I’m looking for stunt work without quite so many high falls and aerials for a while. I’d like to stay out of helicopters and avoid jumping across skyscrapers.”

  Faustina raised an eyebrow and studied me in silence for a few seconds, one of those silences that seemed like an hour. I stirred restlessly in my comfortably plush chair. Maybe I should have lied.

  No, I had to be honest, even if it cost me an agent.

  “What else can you do?”

  “Pretty much any kind of stunt, excluding deep sea diving. Haven’t trained too much with scuba equipment, and I’m not really interested.”

  “Can you swim?”

  “Yup. I can surf, water ski, windsurf, and hold my breath for a very long time, but I haven’t taken it past that level. Too busy throwing myself off tall buildings, I guess.”

  Faustina’s next question was interrupted by the buzz of an incoming phone call. She had one of those old-fashioned intercom style phones with several lines.

  “Sorry, hon. I’ll try and make this quick.” She punched the lit button. “Mana Talent Agency, this is Tracy speaking.” Her voice went up an octave, taking on a perky tone more suited to a cheerleader than an agent.

  “Oh, it’s you.” Her voice dropped to its normal tone. “Yeah, I’m on it. Yeah. I think Langdon would be perfect. No, he hasn’t tried to eat anyone else on set.” She rolled her eyes at me. “That was a bullshit rumor started by his ex. You know how these things go.” She paused and listened. “Yeah. Uh-huh. M-hm. Uh-huh.”

  After about a minute of this, she finally cut into the seemingly non-stop flow of words coming out of the receiver. “Look, I’m with a client, so how about I call you back in a half hour or so. Uh-huh. Thanks. Bye.”

  She hung up and shook her head.

  “I swear people will believe just about anything about ghouls. Langdon is the sweetest thing and besides, he only eats carrion. Why on earth would he want to eat an extra? Or anyone else, for that matter.”

  I shook my head, playing dumb and keeping my opinion to myself. Sure, most ghouls only feed on corpses, but they will go after people if they’re hungry enough, or if the prey is weak or injured. It’d been hot gossip around the Ranch when a ghoul got tossed off a low-budget horror film after attacking one of the extras who’d passed out from low blood sugar.

  Which meant Faustina also played spin doctor for her clients. I wasn’t sure if this was a good thing or a bad thing—it might go either way. Then again, she’s been in the business for more years than I could count, so she’d been doing something right. Even if it meant lying some of the time.

  “Normally Tracy deals with this,” she explained. “I don’t know how to put the damned thing on ‘do not disturb,’ and I think I accidentally deleted the ‘we are out of the office’ voicemail this morning. She won’t let me do anything for myself, and this is what happens.”

  “Hasn’t she ever been out before?”

  Faustina snorted. “Are you kidding? She barely takes time off for Christmas! I have to chase her out of here. She would have dragged herself in this morning if I hadn’t threatened to fire her. We only have one bathroom, for chrissake.”

  “Wow,” I said. “That’s devotion.”

  Faustina shrugged. “It happens. The devotion, I mean. Just not as much as there used to be.”

  I raised an eyebrow.

  “You mean you don’t know?” Faustina gave a delighted laugh. “I thought Sean would have told you. I used to be a Dacian goddess of harvest, back in the day. Lost most of my followers when the crops failed one year. I didn’t feel like trying to drum up new followers, or fight some other local deity for theirs. Then when the Dacians were assimilated into Rome and Greece… well, who wants to take on Jupiter and Zeus, fer chrissake?

  “So I came out here. Hung out with some of the Native American pantheon for a while and then… well, this is a great industry for reinvention.”

  I stared at her, fascinated.

  “Sean’s told me that a lot of the minor deities—ones people pray to every day—used to be big leaguers until they got shoved out of the limelight.”

  Faustina nodded. “Very true. When a god or goddess’s worshippers stop worshipping, for whatever reason, there are certain choices we face. Some do what I did and make a career change. Others respond to random prayers and create a new niche in the market. And some do their best to stay in the big leagues, taking on new identities. Yahweh did it a few times and hit the big time.”

  She shook her head in disgust.

  “Monotheism really screwed a lot of us. Christianity, Islam, Buddhism…” She finished her latte. “Thank God for Hinduism.”

  “What about Scientology?” I had to ask.

  “Oh, that’s just irritating. Seriously, who wants to be a Thetan?” I laughed even though I was still trying to wrap myself around the fact that this woman was once a goddess. Then again, I’d felt just a wee bit compelled to make her a latte…

  “Do you tell everyone this?” I asked.

  “Oh, no,” she replied with another whimsical smile. “I just have a good feeling about you. And I usually trust my feelings.”

  “Does that mean you’re signing me as a client?” “Oh, hon, I knew that before you walked in the door.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  I went directly from my meeting with Faustina to Cedar Sinai Medical Center, a few blocks away on San Vicente.

  It was time for my monthly appointment with my neurologist, Dr. Strangelove. Okay, that isn’t really his name, but it suits him better than Dr. Jones. Which is his name. I mean, seriously, I’ve seen pictures of female cosplayers who look more like Harrison Ford than my neurologist.

  Head shaped like an egg, with a shiny bald pate. Thick tortoiseshell glasses that made Harry Potter’s specs look subtle. The Coke-bottle lenses magnified his eyes to the point I felt like I was being stared at by two poached eggs with brown yolks. Combine all this with a nervous tic that takes the form of an inappropriate giggle, and you have a Peter Lorre character in the making.

  Still, despite his oddball appearance and mannerisms, he’s the best neurologist in the area. I’m just glad he’s not my gynecologist.

  We went through the usual series of tests to make sure my brain was doing what it should be and not doing anything out of the ordinary. While covering my right eye and following the movements of his finger with the left, I told him about the bizarre episode of vertigo I’d experienced.

  “And you say it just hit you out of the blue?” He gave a little giggle without any apparent self-awareness. I ignored it.

  “I guess. I mean, I’d had kind of a rough day on the job and gotten tossed around a lot doing a fight. I had a pretty major burst of adrenaline late in the day so maybe it was just the aftermath. I probably didn’t eat enough either.”

  “Has it happened again?”

  I started to shake my head, stopping when his finger moved in an inch or so from my nose and doing my best to focus without crossing my eyes.

  “No. I’ve had weirder dreams than usual, but that was pretty much it for vertigo.”

  “Dreams, huh?” Another giggle. Possibly a titter. “What kind of dreams?”

  “Oh, dreams about falling, stuff like that,” I answered vaguely. The thought of sharing anything even vaguely sexual with this guy skeeved me out. He nodded, looking disappointed that I had nothing more interesting to offer.

  “How is your memory doing?”

  I shrugged. “About the same. Still can’t remember much of anything about my parents. And yet I can easily summon up irritating commercial jingles and old television theme songs without breaking a sweat.”

  “Hmm.”

  See, now why didn’t he giggle when I said something that was supposed to be funny? It didn’t make me like him any better.

  “I know it’s hard to believe,” he said seriously, “but you’re luckier than most people who’ve suffered falls as severe as the one you had.
I’d say half of them ended up as vegetables, and those that didn’t were lucky if they retained a learning level higher than grade school.”

  He patted me on the shoulder. I had to restrain myself from smacking his hand.

  “I really do think your memories will return,” he said. “Possibly when you least expect them. In the meantime, if you have another episode of the vertigo, give me a call. We may want to do a CAT scan and make sure there isn’t something else going on inside that noggin of yours.”

  And there went the giggle.

  Ugh.

  * * *

  Half an hour later, I breathed a sigh of relief when I emerged into the exhaust-choked air of the parking lot. It was preferable to being inside. I hate the sterile smell overlaid with the inevitable odor of illness and impending death that permeates hospitals and medical centers. Even the nice ones.

  I checked my phone. One missed call and a voicemail from the same number. I put on my earbuds and listened to the message.

  “Hey, Lee, it’s Eden! You know, from Steel Legions? Megan, you remember Megan, right? Makeup girl? Anyway, she has some free passes to a student film screening at USC tomorrow night. Guess it’s time for the latest batch of creative geniuses to strut their stuff. They are geniuses, y’know. Their mommies done told them. Megan says this particular film is supposed to be the best of the batch and that the director is being touted as Tarantino meets Branagh. Hmm, if Tarantino and Branagh were put in the telepod, what movie would they make? Pulp Shakespeare? Anyway, give me a shout and let me know!”

  I grinned and hit the “call back” button.

  “This is Eden.”

  “Hey there, it’s Lee calling you back.”

  “Lee! Guess what? I just got an audition for tomorrow!”

  “That’s awesome!” I said with genuine enthusiasm. “Guess what? I just signed with an agent.”

  “That’s double awesome! Which one?”

  “Faustina Corbin.”

  She gave a low whistle.

  “Nice! I’m with Wolf Lupin and he’s good, but he’s totally not Faustina Corbin. Omigod, I’m so happy for you! We need to celebrate!”

  The nicest thing? I sensed no sour grapes.

  “I’m in,” I said. “We need to celebrate your audition tomorrow, too ’cause you’re totally gonna kill it.”

  “So you wanna go to this screening? Free wine and free food after the film. Megan’s going with her girlfriend, who did the costumes, and I so don’t wanna go by myself. Not in the mood to deal with some guy who thinks he’s gonna get some, either. You wanna be my date?”

  I laughed. “Sure. What’s the film?”

  I could almost hear her shrug. “I don’t remember, but given the hype and Megan’s taste in movies, I’d say we’re looking at pretty high levels of pretentious crap.”

  “And yet she worked on Steel Legions?”

  “I know, right? Anyway, free wine?” She sounded hopeful.

  “I’m there.”

  “Awesome. Meet me at my place at five, and we can drive over together?”

  I glanced at the time. Four o’clock. That gave me more than enough time to get to Venice Beach.

  “You got it.”

  * * *

  A few hours later I sat in a darkened theater with Eden, Megan, her girlfriend Tandi, and about fifty other people. Hyper aware of Tandi’s involvement in the film, Eden and I tried desperately not to giggle as we watched Dark Magistrate, which told the story of a corrupt female judge who takes justice into her own well-manicured hands for reasons that remained unclear even as the end credits scrolled down the screen.

  According to the one-sheet we were handed upon our arrival, Dark Magistrate was directed by Derek Conalt as “a sonnet to film noir, brilliantly realized and directed with bold originality.”

  Missing was the more accurate description of “annoyingly artsy and derivative.” Eden and I got the giggles thirty seconds into the opening credits, during which a montage of delicate lacy underwear wafted lazily to the ground. The capper was a revolver, spinning in slow-motion, falling into the middle of the pile of lingerie and discharging a bullet.

  “I love my phallic symbolism subtle, don’t you?” Eden whispered.

  The film—and our behavior—went downhill from there. It was full of slo-mo, and more shaky cam than a Bourne flick. Dutch angles popped up frequently. At least half of the movie revolved around men trying to discover what lingerie the judge was wearing under her judicial robes. The other half involved her killing anyone who got a peek at her panties.

  It should have been called Deadly Drawers.

  We tried to rein it in for Megan and Tandi’s sake, but it was a struggle, especially at the end when the judge smashed her last enemy’s head in with a gavel, shrieking, “Objection overruled!”

  Finally, the lights rose in the house, and the cast and crew were called down front to take a quick bow before heading up to the lobby for the reception. As soon as Tandi headed down the aisle, Megan turned to us with an expectant look.

  “Well? What did you think?” Before we could say anything, she continued, “Wasn’t it just amazing?”

  Really?

  “Well, I was certainly amazed by the size of her lingerie collection,” Eden said with an admirably straight face. It didn’t work. Megan shot her a look.

  I turned my laugh into a coughing fit as seamlessly as possible.

  “Seriously, though,” she said to me. “I mean, how often do you see a movie written and directed by a man with such a strong female lead? Most men would have made the judge a man.”

  I couldn’t stop myself. “Wouldn’t that have undercut the entire subplot about her underwear?”

  “It’s not about the lingerie,” Megan shot back. “You saw what it said on the one-sheet. This movie is a deft blow for feminism.”

  I couldn’t help it. I snorted. “Oh, come on.”

  Megan answered with a withering glare. “Well, I’m going to meet Derek at the reception.” With that, she swept past us and joined the stream of people heading up the aisle. Eden looked at me.

  “You wanna meet the director?”

  “I’d rather meet the free drinks.”

  * * *

  They’d set up tables with refreshments in the lobby, reminiscent of intermissions at high school plays. Instead of punch and homemade cookies, however, there was sushi, bread, crackers, several different kinds of cheese, pates, and meats. Plenty of red and white wine, along with sparkling water.

  “Someone dropped some serious cash for this,” Eden whispered.

  “Is this normal?” I asked.

  “I’m guessing that the Boy Wunderkind comes from money.”

  Eden began filling her plate with reckless abandon. I followed her example. Plates filled and cabernet in hand, we looked around for Megan. She and Tandi were on the fringes of a group of people gathered around a skinny, intense guy who I assumed was Derek Conalt.

  “You wanna meet him?” Eden asked doubtfully.

  “Hell, no,” I said. “When the nicest thing you can say to someone is ‘it was very interesting,’ it’s better to abstain. And somehow I think Megan will appreciate our discretion.”

  Eden and I perched on a square planter outside of the theater, plates balanced on our knees as we ate. Her plate teetered back and forth every time she took a bite. I marveled that she could remain so slender while eating like a stevedore.

  “Do you really think Megan believes the whole feminist thing about the movie?”

  Eden shrugged. “Hard to say, although I think if Tandi wasn’t involved she’d be a little less strident about it. But this is Tandi’s first real break, so I’m sure Megan wants to be as supportive as possible.”

  “That makes sense,” I allowed. “But what doesn’t make sense is all those funky Dutch angles and the pseudo-realistic shaky cam. Was it supposed to be artsy or do you think there was actually a reason for it?”

  “It’s actually supposed to represent the protag
onist’s disconnection with reality, and her increasing disorientation as her sense of moral and ethical values gets lost in her homicidal dementia.”

  Huh?

  Eden and I looked up to find a tall, lanky guy in khakis and a crisp white shirt standing there, staring at a point somewhere between us. Average looking, with craggy features. Not ugly, mind you, just nothing special, except for a pair of intense hazel eyes that appeared to focus on a trash can a few feet away.

  He had a glass of white wine—a real glass, not a plastic cup, mind you—and a superior expression as he continued in a distinctly British accent, “At least that’s what Derek will tell you.”

  “And you are…?”

  The superior expression ratcheted up just a notch. “I’m Connor Hayden, the DP.”

  Perhaps I would have stated my thoughts more tactfully if I’d known the director of photography was within earshot. I mean, normally I’d have been mortified at putting my foot in my mouth, but somehow his smirk irritated me. So I decided to go for broke.

  “Aside from all that psychobabble,” I asked sweetly, “is there any point to shooting a film that way? Camera work for those discerning viewers who want to come up with their own interpretation? Or do the makers of motion-sickness drugs fund the films to drum up more business?”

  “Me-ow,” Eden said, not quite under her breath.

  Hayden looked directly at both of us for the first time, one eyebrow raised. His gaze skimmed Eden, gave me a cursory once over, went back to Eden and then finally settled on me. He really did have exceptionally nice eyes.

  “So. You didn’t like the film, then?” It could have been a question or a statement, given British speech patterns. Either way, it sounded condescending.

  “It was funny,” I offered.

  “It wasn’t supposed to be funny.”

  “Neither was Showgirls. And yet…” I let my words trail off, finished my wine, and looked sadly at my empty plastic cup.

  Eden immediately stood up. “I’ll get us some more.” She winked at me and went inside.